Nightlock
by Curiosity Killed the Becks
Summary: The Hunger Games from Peeta's POV. I promise to stick to cannon as best I can!
1. Chapter 1

As sunlight finally begins pouring through my window, I remain motionless, resting my head between my knees. Just like every year, I am made to wait the dread out in solitude. There is no reassurance that my mother can offer me. I believe that she is incapable of it. I am no longer even sure if she loves me, if she ever did. The possibility of her being the only parent in Panem not concerned for the welfare of her child is all too real. Not even the reaping can bring her to appreciate how precious her children are. At least, I have heard other parents refer to their children as precious, or as a blessing. Every day, I doubt that she believes this more and more. My father is not any better. He has a business to run, and whether or not today could result in him losing a child cannot change that.

There is a sharp knock on my door, and behind it I can hear my mother calling me with shrill tones of frustration. Today is the one day of the year that I am guaranteed safety from her destructive anger. I wish that it did not take my life being on the line to be shown what little affection that I am given. But, some affection is better than none at all. Compared to the treatment that my elder brothers receive from her, one could say that I am being spoiled. I count myself lucky. I have yet to feel the strap of a hard leather belt by either of my parents' hands, while it is not uncommon for my brothers to be covered from their backsides to their knees in dark bruises and red welts. My father only used physical punishment in the form of spanking while we were younger, but my mother's abuse has continued into their teenage years. I suppose that being the youngest has saved me from such pain.

"Honey, are you alright?" she asks, her voice carrying through the thin wood of the door. She sounds too harsh, too forced to be consoling. The words that should bring me comfort only provide resentment and a deep, stinging wound. What more do I expect from her? I hear the click of my doorknob twisting open. It takes every ounce of my self control not to scoff or scorn my mother as she steps into my room. Honey. Since when does she address me with anything other than shouting? It feels alien, unnatural, and I know that it must be forced on her part. For the first time in four years, she is trying to comfort me before the reaping. My father must have said something to her. A part of me recoils at the sudden surprise, and I suddenly want nothing more than to shout at her until she leaves me alone.

But I have to give her credit for trying.

Silently, I lift my head up from where it had been resting on my kneecaps, and my bed creaks with age as I move. My eyes meet her's, and I am sorry to see that my initial suspicions are correct. Her expression holds none of the pain or concern that her voice should have carried, and her icy eyes are boring into me with one emotion, and one emotion only: disgust. I can see it in every line of her face. _Why? _I ask her silently, and I know that my attempt to remain emotionless has failed. My mother's face becomes darker, more disapproving. She plants her hands on her hips, and assumes a dominate posture. She glares down her nose at me, but it's been long since I have grown used to my mother's dark looks. When I was younger, her glares and glowers would cause me so much hurt it felt as if my heart was being ripped out. But I have learned to block the pain, just as I have learned to deflect her harsh words and high temper. The only way to deal with my mother is to submit, let her cool off, and then hope for the best. It was a lesson that I had learned quickly, and one that my brothers never seemed to grasp. Perhaps that is why I am her favorite.

"Peeta," she says firmly, her blue eyes conveying a flash of irritation, "You haven't eaten. It's nearly ten." As the words leave her mouth, I know that I'm in trouble. She's never approved of my habit of locking myself away in my room on the day of the reaping. Perhaps she believes it cowardly.

"I know, Mother." I say, setting my exhausted and dull voice bouncing off the inside of my skull. It's the first time I've spoken since last evening, and my voice is heavy and cracked from being unused. I realize just then that I have not had anything to drink yet either, and that my mother is probably right about eating. But I can't make myself care.

A raised brow shows that my mother does not appreciate my attitude today. When does she ever appreciate anything that I do? According to half of her screaming fits, I am a useless waste of space. "You'd best watch your mouth, young man," she says coldly, and her lips curl into the smallest of a snarl. To her, the sleepiness laced throughout my voice could have been sarcasm. More than likely, she is only looking for a fight, and I have given her an excuse. The fire that has sparked in her pale eyes is now blazing in intensity, staring me down as if she hopes to melt me with her gaze alone.

Whether I simply have not gotten enough sleep of late, or I have truly come to an end of the line with my mother, I cannot be sure. All I know is that I am tired of her constant anger, of the pain and stress that she piles upon our family each day. Before I can stop myself, I sigh heavily in pale frustration, and I immediately regret it. My mother's eyes go wide in shock, and her expression grows darker than I have ever seen it. She stares at me for a moment in disbelief, and I find myself swallowing with trepidation. I haven't tried facing her in weeks. Since I have learned how to deal with my mother there has been little reason to cross her, to place myself in the way of her destructive path. And now I have.

The silence that fills my little room is nearly deafening, and after a few moments of watching my mother to try and determine what she is going to do, I tear my gaze away from her's, and begin glancing around my room nervously. Things are never pretty when my mother is silent. Angry screaming fits are ugly, but when she's fallen silent you know things are bad. My eyes take in the plain brown floors, the unadorned walls, looking everywhere but at my mother. After what feels like an eternity, she finally speaks, her voice soft, like a deadly caress.

"_What was that_?" Her voice is at least an octave lower than I am used to hearing it, and it makes chills run down my spine. I continue to intently study my shoes in hopes that the situation will diffuse itself, but I'd just as soon grow wings and fly. "Peeta!" she snaps, her voice at it's normal level of shrillness, and I nearly jump out of my skin at the volume she reaches. Before I can stop myself, my eyes pull up to reach her's, and I know that I'm caught. There's a triumphant glimmer in her eyes, and I know that she's preparing herself for the best screaming match she's had in a long while. My heart begins to pound furiously behind my ribs, and I can only hope that she doesn't decide to become physical.

I watch in something near horror as she opens her mouth, and I try to quickly prepare myself for the onslaught that's sure to come. But in that split second that hangs between her opening her mouth and forming words of disgust and hatred, I make a decision. I should not have to face this. Not even under normal circumstances, should I have to shrink around my house in fear of my own mother. My father is too much of a coward to stand up to her. That doesn't mean that I have to be a coward too.

"Don't, Mother." I say softly, catching her off guard. She does not look pleased about my interrupting her, and somehow, her gaze becomes even darker. "Not today." She opens her mouth and manages to make a noise of protest from the back of her throat, but I stand from my bed and brush past her. I leave my room without a glance backwards, not caring what mental state I've just put my mother into. More than likely she will be completely psychotic. I will be paying for this later.

I'll deal with my mother after the reaping.

I don't have enough resolve left in me to go through with a full blown fight, and I know that if I give her the chance, she'll take it. It's almost like she's addicted to fighting: screaming and shouting must have an opposite effect on me. I merely cower and hide, hold out and hope that it will be over soon, yet my mother seems to feed on it. Everyone in the District seems to have had an encounter with her terrible temper, and I don't believe that anyone really likes my mother. I love her, but increasingly, my love has transformed from that of an adoring love to more of a fearful love. I do not hate my mother, but I do not like her either. I used to think that all children were as mistreated by their parents as I was by my mother. And when I learned that it was just my mother who treated her children like this, I begin to wonder what I was doing wrong. I tried so hard to please her, but nothing seemed to work.

I still catch myself wondering what it is that I have done wrong to earn her abuse. Her harsh words have racked up over the years, and it seems as if each of her insults have been carved into my heart. No, I cannot forget my mother's screeching voice, or the way that my father stands by and watches. My brothers have learned to brush it off, and it never seems to bother them anymore. I have tried and failed to do the same. My mother says that I am weak, and that I am a coward. And with every passing argument that I shrink away from, I believe her more and more. As I begin my descent down the stairs to the bakery below, I realize that a coward cannot survive the Hunger Games.

I suddenly feel quite ill. I clutch at the banister, and my sweaty palms nearly slip off of the smooth surface. I have always known that I am not cut out for the Capitol's form of a reminder of our treason. It was exactly seventy-four years ago that the thirteen Districts surrounding the Capitol were drawn into submission by the absolute rule of the Capitol of Panem. The the thirteenth District refused to send their children as tribute to the shining city, and they were blown off of the face of the earth. Literally, we fight or we die. I have watched three hundred and thirty-six tributes die in the arena over my fifteen years of life. I have seen only fourteen victors step away from the arena. And today, there is a chance that my name could be drawn, and I could be joining the three hundred and thirty-six that I have seen die.

_There are thousands of names,_ I remind myself. But there is always the possibility of my name being drawn, and this is terrifying to me. I stay where I am for a moment, allowing my fear to rush through me. Not even my own room is a sanctuary from my mother, not anymore. It seems like here on the stairs is the only place of respite that I am going to have. I try to take a deep breath, and I try to sedate the adrenaline rushing through my veins. I can feel my heart pounding again, the heavy beats thudding in my ears. My grip on the banister becomes white-knuckled. I hear a creaking noise from further up the single flight of stairs and I quickly look over my shoulder, hoping that it is only one of my brothers. The last thing I need is for her to come down and find me near panic. I freeze, not even breathing, and silently watch the top of the stairs for movement. It's dim, like everywhere else in my house, but there's just enough light that I can make out a subtle motion. I squint, trying to see what's causing the wood to sound in protest, and I am able to make out the feline form of my cat, Sesame.

Relief is immediate and my breath rushes out in a sigh. Sesame mews quietly and gracefully begins padding down the stairs. When she reaches me, she begins rubbing her thin body around my leg, purring softly as she does. I reach down and stroke her coarse coat, dismayed by the tufts of ashen fur that come loose. Sesame continues rumbling with contentment, her green eyes squinting shut. I mumble nonsense and she takes great delight in the attention that I give her. She continues to purr and her rough tongue darts out and brushes the back of my hand. I smile at her, and not for the first time, I contemplate the fact that she is the one source of my happiness. I had to beg my mother to let me keep her, and even then, there has been times where she has tried to kill her. Whether by strangulation or by downing, my mother has made it clear that she does not approve of my having a cat.

I cannot count the times that Sesame's piercing howls have brought me to anger. I forget myself, when it comes to this cat. When there are few things in this world that you truly care about, the lengths that you will go to protect them are limitless. It is the one thing that I am willing to fight with my mother over. And while she is cruel, and while I often doubt that she loves me, she seems to understand the need that I feel. The need that I have to call something my own. I've been told that my mother was independent as a girl. Perhaps she sympathizes with my will to be free. Caring for Sesame seems to be the one thing in my life that no one else has control over.

And then my door really does creak open. In the dim light, I can see my mother shutting my door behind her, and before she can turn towards me I shove Sesame away. She hisses as she's forced down a step, and I can see the human-like disapproval in her eyes.

"Shoo!" I say softly, waving her off before I stand back up. Sesame cocks her head in defiance, and mews at me again. I can hear the wood creaking loudly as my mother begins moving towards the stairs. I know that there is enough light for her to see that Sesame is with me, but I hope that she doesn't notice anyways. "Get," I say desperately, and I give her stomach a little push with my foot. Like all cats, she's good with her feet, and doesn't loose her balance as she's moved down another step. She meows loudly in protest, but she finally seems to get the picture. Arrogantly, she arches her back, and pads proudly down the stairs. But I don't have enough time to feel any better about it. Just then, my mother starts climbing down the stairs.

"Peeta," she snaps, "Why aren't you down in the bakery helping your father? You know that we'll be needing those extra cakes for after the reaping." There it is again, that sharp tone of utter disgust. It seems that she's recovered from her minor downfall back in my room. It's in my best interest if I pretend that never happened.

"I'll go now." I reply, submitting all I dare. I can only give in so far without seeming to be a coward. If I don't grovel enough, she'll think that I'm being defiant, and then there will be no escaping her anger - whether today is the reaping or not. Usually, I am able to use the reaping as a twisted sort of shield, but I know that I am in the calm before the storm. I say one wrong word, and I've earned myself a black eye. However, if I appear too timid, then she will think me a coward. She'll think that I am afraid of being selected to compete in the Hunger Games. According to her, death is nothing to be afraid of.

Can she remember when she was young enough to participate in the reapings? Can she not remember the fear that boiled in her blood as the Capitol 'escort' pulled the pale strip of paper from the glass ball? Does she recall the paralyzing fear that seems to block everything else out?

I look into her eyes, in false hopes of finding sympathy. I am only greeted with the all-too familiar disgust. We share the same blue eyes, but I can't help but wonder if her eyes have ever held the compassion that I know mine hold. Because if she does not feel it for her own flesh, for her own blood, what can she feel it for? Certainly not her husband.

"Well?" She asks sharply, startling me from my thoughts. "Go on! Your father is waiting for you." I only nod my head with acknowledgement before I turn away and head down the stairs. I'm sure she expected more from me: behind me, I can hear her huff in indignation. Did she expect more respect? Or did she expect me to grovel more than I already have? I can never seem to make her happy. My mother is beyond impossible to please. Sometimes, it feels like she's determined to be unhappy. As if she's made up her mind to hate me, no matter how hard I try to earn her love.

Will anything ever be enough for her?

I sigh quietly as I come off of the steps, and end up in the bottom section of our house. There is a room off to the left that my eldest brother is using for a bedroom - until he finds a place of his own. I turn to the right, heading towards the kitchens that supply our bakery. My daily work usually begins here, where I select the freshly made cakes to ice for the steady supply of customers. Cakes are extremely popular after the reaping, and grateful families usually come and buy the pastries in celebration that their family has remained whole for another year. The design of the cake never seems to matter to the customers on the day of the reaping: they are never very picky once the terror of the afternoon is over.

I step into the kitchen with vigor renewed in my step. I always feel better when I have a task at hand, when there is something that I can make myself busy with. My father has always said that the Mellarks do not have idle hands. Even my mother prefers to busy herself with housework than she does to lounge about. I think that her screaming and shouting is another way that she busies herself. You cannot do something repetitively by choice without taking at least some enjoyment in it. And it is not as if any of us are forcing her to behave this way. Anger is her weapon by choice. Not that any of us have ever given her a reason to need such a destructive weapon.

A gentle smile comes to my face as I move towards the back wall and pull one of the freshly made cakes off of the cooling rack. Carefully, I use the palm of my hand to support the cake, thankful that the wooden cutting board it's sitting on is cool. I've been burned before in the kitchens, and heat hurts like nothing else can. The scars that crawl up my father's arms prove that he's a seasoned baker, and I fear that if I stay in the profession I'll end up getting burned like that too. But it's all I know, and I suppose that burns will eventually heal.

I expertly settle the cake down onto the counter-top, allowing the wood to slide off of my hand gracefully. I've been icing cakes since my eleventh birthday, and over the years, I've gotten quite good. My mother used to do the delicate decorations, but once I proved to be better she gladly stepped aside. I'm still surprised that her pride allowed her to do so, but my mother always has been unpredictable.

"Four hours," I remind myself. Thinking back to last evening, I remember that I've done eight cakes already. Usually, we sell at least twelve cakes on reaping days. Of course, those who can't afford a whole cake will by pastries to share with their family, but my father will have already taken care of those. It will take at least half an hour to get myself presentable enough for the reaping, so that leaves me with three and a half hours to complete at least four cakes. Good thing they've already been baked.

The good thing about reaping days is that I always have more freedom to be creative with my designs. Usually, cakes are custom ordered so that the expensive sugar batter does not go to waste, and I'm frosting whatever is on the order form. But today cake purchases are guaranteed, and I can do pretty much whatever I want. I quickly stoop down to the bins beneath the counter, and I pull out an apron. After I tie the coarse white fabric over my clothing, I retrieve the fondant, and the tiny tubes of colored icing. As I place the tubes on the counter, I evaluate what I've got to work with, taking a few glances at the cake I've retrieved. It's a lemon one - a rarity in my father's shop. The ground up lemon powder that is required for the flavoring comes from District 11. Because trading is nonexistent between Districts, he has to place a special order straight to the Capitol for it.

When the supplies come for what he needs to conduct his business, like the jams and eggs he needs for his pastries, rarely is he given lemon. I'm tempted to ask my father if we can keep this cake for our own celebration even though we've never celebrated before. The last time I had lemon cake I was eight. Just being near the soft cake is making my mouth water. I've always had a taste for tart things. As I begin draping the white fondant over the circular cake, I realize that Mother would never allow for us to keep an entire cake, and to cut this one up would be a waste.

But that's alright. There will always be another one in a few months I can ask about.

After a few minutes of working thoughtlessly, I have the lemon cake covered in fondant. I smooth it out with the flat side of the scalpel that I use to curve colored designs of icing, and begin to think about what I could do with the color. A rare cake deserves a rare design. And as often as not, things tend to taste better when they look better. It's human nature: if your cake looks good, more people will want to eat them. None of us dare to say it, but more cakes are being sold now that I've taken over decoration than when my mother was in charge of it.

Distractedly, I pick up the red tube of frosting, and I squirt a little onto the center of the cake. I have all the time I need, and as long as it comes out looking nice I can do what I want. Slowly, I spread the sticky stuff out with the edge of my blade, careful not to cut the fondant away from the lemon cake. As I spread the red away from the center of the cake, it gets lighter until it eventually becomes a pretty shade of pink. I decide I like this, and then I pick up the yellow icing to see what else I can do. Silently, I let myself slip into my work without conscious thought.

Around forty-five minutes later I have a lemon cake completely covered with lilies, bursting with red and orange. I'm proud of how I manage the leaves, and they look nearly as life-like as the petals. As always, I've managed to mix the colors with near perfect highlights and shadows. It's taken years to cultivate this talent, and although there's always room for improvement, I'm proud of what I can do. I sigh in satisfaction, and survey my work for a moment. For an experiment, it's turned out quite well. I'll be surprised if it's not sold by the end of the day.

Even more carefully than I had the first time, I pick the cake back up, this time sliding both of my hands beneath the wooden slab to provide better support. It would be a shame and a waste if the cake fell now. I don't need both of my parents upset with me before the reaping. With caution I back out of the doorway out into the hallway, pass the stairs, and walk into the other half of the business: the room where customers buy the breads and tarts on sale. From there I make my way towards the window, and place my cake on the top display tier. It's tilted just enough for people to see the bright design from the window, but it's flat enough so that the cake won't fall to the ground.

Quickly, I slide the wooden platter out from underneath the lemon cake, and I wince as it nearly breaks in half. But with a stroke of luck I manage to save the pastry. Once the lemon cake has been settled, I take a step back and brush the powdery residue from the fondant off of my hands onto my apron. It really does look nice in the window, but I can't stare at it all day. There are more cakes that need to be decorated.

I spend the next few hours decorating an assortment of chocolate and vanilla cakes, icing each of them differently. I do another one with lilies, except they're pink and white, which is a nice contrast with the chocolate cake underneath. I use a vanilla cake for a little bird I saw hopping outside of my window the other day - I think it's a sparrow, but I can't be sure. There are other designs that I use, but decorating cakes is so mindless that I cannot be sure what I did without going back and double checking. And now that it's one-thirty, I don't have that option. I've got to get ready for the reaping.

I head upstairs to the only bathroom of the house. I'm lucky that we live in the square, because that means I can procrastinate until nearly the last moment about preparing myself. The same is not true for those who live in outlying parts of the District, or for those who live in the Seam. Because most people in District 12 cannot afford cars, people walk everywhere they go. For people who live in the Seam, they can hardly afford food to put into their bellies. There is an hour's walk ahead of them. I have all the time in the world, compared to them.

Quickly, I strip down to my bare skin and wash myself with cold water, a washrag and a bar of soap. I don't have enough time for a bath, but that's alright. This will be just as good. After I've cleaned myself, I run a razor along the scruff lining my cheeks to make sure I'm clean-shaven. Even if this could end up being the worst day of my life, I want to look my best. I usually try to deny that I've inherited my mother's near-deadly sense of vanity, but I know that in a strange way, I have. I doubt that anyone else here cares about how they look.

After I've cleaned up, I put on the dark trousers that are always saved for reaping days, and I button up a borrowed blue shirt. As I pull up the stiffened collar of my father's shirt and tuck the last button through the last hole, I glance at myself in the mirror. There are dark, pronounced circles under my blue eyes, and only their brilliant color seems to save me from looking like the waking dead. My face is hollow, and I look bone-weary. But who doesn't on the day of the reaping? Only a fool would not be worried.

I estimate that it's been about fifteen minutes. Time to be heading to the square. I run my hand through my hair, wishing that the golden waves were a little more under control. But there's not anything that I can do about that now. Silently as ever, I walk out of the bathroom and head down the stairs. Sesame greets me at the bottom with a lingering mew. I stoop down and scratch behind her ears and she purrs appreciatively. I have some time to pay attention to her, but I'd rather get outside and get the reaping over with. With a pat that has a sense of finality to it, I stand and head out the door. I assume that my family has already gone outside, as I cannot hear their usual chatter behind me in the bakery.

With not much time left until two, the square is already packed. I stand right in front of my house, overwhelmed by all of the people. There are about eight thousand people living in District 12, and it seems like everyone has come for the reaping. Attendance is mandatory for those of age, but desperate and frightened families usually come along for the ride. And there's always those who have no one else that they care about, who run amok through the crowd and bet on children. Of course, they have no way of knowing who has taken tesserae and those who have not. But they assume that children from the Seam have opted to have their names placed in the twisted raffle more than once per year, and those from the wealthier parts of 12 have not. It's disgusting.

A bird cries, and I look up to follow the noise. I catch sight of a mockingjay flitting past the camera crews perched on the rooftops, as if it is trying to evade being caught on camera. But it's not like the Capitol puppets are too concerned about catching sight of their failed _muttation_. No. They're too busy filming the fun that's soon to come. It's absolutely sickening. But it's not as if there's anything that we can do about it. Not only are we a District beneath the Capitol's rule, we are the smallest District. The weakest. Of the least consequence. There is a reason that 12 has not had a victor in twenty-three years.

And the only surviving victor is more shaming than not having a victor at all. Haymitch Abernathy is too drunk and too narcissistic to be considered anything other than a fool. He has all the money in the world, and what does he do with it? He drinks it away. He has the money to help the people of his District, and what does he do? Hole himself up in Victor's Village and ignore his people as they die of starvation. His one job, and his only job is to keep their children alive in the arena. In the fourteen Hunger Games that I have seen, and the six that I remember, District 12 has never made it past opening day.

It's hard not to resent him.

I look to the clock tower residing over the Justice Building, and I see that it's one-fifty. I have ten minutes to get to the sectioned-off place for the sixteens, but that's more than enough time. I have to hold my breath as I plunge into the milling crowd. There's so many people, I'm very near being crushed between them. I brush past the olive-skinned teenagers of the Seam, and I force myself not to look for Katniss Everdeen. I know that she's here, and I know that she's just as terrified as anyone else. Let the Capitol terrorize anyone they want, let them strip anyone else of their rights, let them allow anyone to starve that they want; anyone but Katniss. I want nothing more than to protect her from their tyrannical rule. Because Katniss Everdeen is different. I fear for her more than I fear for myself. And I know that if she's called for the reaping, I am as good as dead. I would rather die than see Katniss placed into the arena. But there is nothing I can do.

**{{I had to split chapter one because I really wasn't liking how long the original one was. The place where I left off here isn't really the best breaking point, sorry! :( Read the next chapter. That ends more appropriately, I promise. Please rate, and I'm not afraid of criticism! :) }}**


	2. Chapter 2

I finally find a place beside the other teenagers who live in the shops around me. They welcome me into their little semi-circle, because many of them know me from school. I am not friends with all of them, but on reaping days everyone tends to be closer. I look again to the clock, noting that there is only five minutes left. Suddenly, I feel someone take my hand into their grasp. I look to my left to see none other than Delly Cartwright. Her pasty face is dawn into a weak smile, and her blue eyes are full of worry. Her yellow hair is pulled back into a simple plait, falling to her shoulder blades. She gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, and I return her weak smile.

"It will be alright, Peeta. I'm sure of it." She whispers to me in a warm tone. She is so optimistic, it can be irritating. But today it is welcome. She's so sure that we'll make it out of this reaping she's daring to voice her opinion aloud. I wish I was as confident as she was. Just as I begin to whisper words of thanks, the clock strikes two, demanding attention of all of those who stand in the square. I look away from Delly, and towards the temporary stage that has been put up for the reaping.

Sitting there is Mayor Undersee, looking as if he has not slept in a few days. He has a daughter who's eligible for the reaping. He must be a better parent than my mother. Next to him is Effie Trinket. She's the Capitol escort who will be accompanying the two tributes to their deaths. She's wearing the most hideous spring green blazer and skirt, and her blouse is such a bright shade of pink it nearly burns my eyes. She's a round little thing, and her clipped, high accent is incredibly severe. Her hair has been dyed to a brilliant shade of pink, and it nearly outshines her blouse. But I look carefully as she nudges Mayor Undersee into a standing position, and her hair moves off-center as she does. It must be a wig.

Begrudgingly, the mayor takes his place at the podium and begins telling the history of Panem. He briefly speaks of the country that it once was, North America. He lists disasters, wars, and finally, a brutal end. As he continues his yearly lecture, he goes further into depth about the Capitol that rose out of the ashes, and the Districts that the remaining land was formed into. As he drones on about the Dark Days, I catch a glimpse of Effie Trinket sniffing indignantly. Of course. She's allowed to be disgusted by the people who rose against a tyrannical rule and were crushed. It happened before she was born, but she's just like all the other people from the Capitol. Taking disgust in our actions, and enjoying watching our children slaughter each other. I do not miss the little grin that crossed her lips as the Mayor continues to speak of the Hunger Games. To her, it's simply a form of entertainment. To her, watching the Districts pitted against one another in a battle to the death is exciting. Watching twenty-four children kill one another is _fun_. Seeing two children from each District die is simply another thing that is so great about living in the Capitol, and not living in the cold, miserable, Seam of District 12.

My fists tighten by my sides. Finally, the mayor finishes with his traditional closing: "It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks." He says the words as if he's asking Effie how the weather is in the Capitol. At least our Capitol-chosen Mayor is loyal to us. Then he continues with listing the Hunger Games victors from District 12. Just as he finishes the last syllable in Abernathy, the only living survivor stumbles onto the stage, hollering something in a drunken slur. He collapses into his chair with a loud hiccup that resonates around the otherwise silent square, and a few people laugh. His paunchy gut jiggles as he hiccups again, and he begins choking on his own breath.

A few of the older, more rebellious kids begin applauding their District victor, and the rest of the crowd quickly picks it up. Even I clap a few times, simply for the entertainment factor of it. Haymitch looks as if he's lost, and responds by trying to gather Effie Trinket into a bear hug. She shrieks and tries to push him away, making her wig tilt off to the side. And now the mayor looks panic-stricken, as if he's just realized he could lose his position for this.

Quickly, he introduces Effie, and returns back to his chair. Effie, who has just managed to push Haymitch off of her, tries to readjust her wig, and nearly runs up to the podium on her fat little legs. She brings the microphone down to her slight height and clears her throat with an annoyingly high noise. "Happy Hunger Games!" She squeaks, sounding rather like a chipmunk, "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" I nearly roll my eyes at her signature introduction, but I keep myself under control. I wish that she would just pull the names already. That she would allow for this nightmare to end.

But she keeps to her tradition, and goes on about how she's so honored to be here in 12. You can nearly hear the air hiss from her mouth as she lies through her teeth. All Effie wants is to be bumped up to a District that has victors, where she'll receive more positive attention. It's so obvious that it's nearly painful. And finally, she closes with some ridiculous statement about how today is not about her, but how it's about the tribute we must pay to the Capitol. I'm not sure if I dislike her or Haymitch more.

"Ladies first!" Effie nearly squeals, and you can hear the excitement dripping from her voice. My heart quickens behind my ribcage, and I hold my breath._ Not Katniss_. The words seem to resonate from my soul, and my entire body is focused on this one wish. _Not Katniss_. Effie crosses the stage to the glass ball that contains the thousands of names and places a chubby little hand inside it. _Not Katniss_. She digs around in the glass ball for many, long, painful seconds and finally grasps a slip. _Not Katniss. _She pulls her hand out, scans the slip with her beady little eyes and smiles knowingly at us. The blood drains from my face, and I fear for the worse. The entire population of District 12 seems to be holding its breath. _NOT. KATNISS. _Effie finally takes a deep breath, and announces the name loudly and clearly. And it's not Katniss.

"Primrose Everdeen!" Effie nearly screams in excitement. My stomach drops through the floor. I want to throw up. I hear a gasp off to the left, and a soft clamor. Immediately, I look towards the sound, and I see Katniss' head dipping below the crowd. A boy from the Seam catches her, and I want nothing more than to be that boy. I imagine the shock Katniss must feel, and it nearly rips my heart out. It kills me to have her put through so much pain. I want to be there for her. I want to be the one holding her. I want to take Primrose's place.

The only sound is from the crowd is a disappointed murmur. A twelve year old should not be called to face the horrors of the Hunger Games. I see Primrose walking stiffly past Katniss, and my heart stops._ Katniss, don't. Please don't._

"Prim!" She cries out, and stumbles through the crowd. I want to die. "Prim!" She nearly screams, the terror in her voice tangible. Katniss nearly runs to the stage, and cuts Primrose off before she can mount the stage. _No! _I cry silently, struggling to remain composed. Her dark braid swishes violently as she pushes Primrose out of the way with a powerful sweep of her arm. _Katniss, don't!_

"I volunteer!" she shouts desperately, "I volunteer as tribute!" I feel my knees buckling beneath me. This is something out of a nightmare. Katniss _can't_ die. Effie's eyes widen in surprise, and Mayor Undersee looks pained. I can feel hot tears building up in my eyes, and I want nothing more than to take her place. I can't let Katniss go. She can't go to the Capitol. Katniss can't die! Nausea sweeps over me, and I nearly swoon. Delly's grip on my hand tightens. I have forgotten that she is beside me. I have forgotten that anyone else is here. There is only Katniss, sending herself to a sure death. I want to die.

"Lovely!" Chirps Effie, as if Katniss has just volunteered to make dinner. "But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth we, um..."

"What does it matter?" Asks the mayor, looking at Katniss with a look filled with regret. How can he stand this every year? How can he stand nearly losing his daughter, but always losing a citizen? Surely, he must care some. "What does it matter?" He repeats, staring Effie down. "Let her come forward." I shut my eyes on the scene before me, in hopes that it will fade away. In hopes that I will wake up from this nightmare.

But Primrose's screaming brings me back to reality. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!" She's wrapped her little arms around Katniss tightly, as if she can keep her older sister back. I stare in horror, unable to form words. If I had been able, I would have joined Primrose in disapproval. I would do anything to keep Katniss from going.

"Prim, let me go," Katniss says roughly, trying to hold herself together. She places her hands on Primrose's arms and tries to shove her away. Primrose shakes her head wildly, sending her blonde hair cascading down her back. Katniss nearly growls and tries to scrape Primrose off of her. "Let go!"

I feel faint, as if this is only a bad memory. I want nothing more than to take Katniss' place, to take her pain away. I know that she would not miss me. Perhaps she would because I would have saved her sister, but other than that, she would not have thought twice of me. There have been many times where I have caught her gaze in the hallways, where I have dared to hope that she may return my feelings, but I know better than that. Life is not a fairytale, especially so in District 12.

Just then I see the tall, broad-shouldered figure of Gale Hawthorne. The sight of his face, his hands brushing so familiarly along Katniss' waist as he pulls Primrose away boils my blood. I know she loves him. Because the baker's son could never compete with a hunter. "Up you go, Catnip," He says gruffly, the dark edge of his voice hiding pain. He loves her as well. There was never any chance for me anyways.

"Well bravo!" Squeals Effie Trinket as Katniss marches up the steps leading to the stage. "That's the spirit of the Games!" As I turn my gaze to the fat little Capitol woman, my anger is suddenly redirected. Katniss just laid her life down for her sister, and Effie's behaving as if this is some kind of joke. As if the Hunger Games hold entertainment value for not only her self-centered little brain, but for everyone else in Panem. She claps her chubby little hands together and guides Katniss to the center of the stage. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," she says softly, as if she feels this is as surreal to her as it is to me.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" She trills excitedly, and turns to the crowd expectantly. And she is greeted with only silence. Not one person applauds. It feels as if every single resident of District 12 is merely staring in disbelief at Effie Trinket. As if every person in District 12 is disapproving of her game. As if they are disapproving of her, of the Hunger Games, and thereby the Capitol. But me? Oh no. I am not disapproving. I have gone past disapproval. I stare at Effie Trinket, with hate burning in my eyes. I wish that she could see me.

But then my eyes slide to Katniss, just as they always seem to do. She's so magnetic, between her spirit, and the beauty she doesn't seem to realize that she possesses, I cannot push her away. Her olive features are anxious, as if she's just realized that she can, in fact, protect Primrose. But I cannot protect her. And I wish, more than anything, that I could. But... I can show her that I care. Somehow, there has to be a way. I don't release my death-grip on Delly, but I feel her shift slightly. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her holding the three middle fingers of her left hand up to her lips. A sign of respect. Immediately, I do the same. Respect is one of the many things that I feel for Katniss Everdeen. But unlike what the sign suggests, I refuse to say goodbye. I love her too much to let her go.

The silence stretches on for a few moments, and both Effie and Katniss are wearing identical expressions of confusion. Effie probably can't understand the fact that District 12 is not exploding with applause at the very entertaining efforts on Katniss' part... And why Katniss is confused, I cannot be sure. Perhaps she's still shocked that her little sister was the winner of the reaping. Or even more confused as to how she ended up on the stage. I keep watching her, and for an instant, I think that her gray eyes lock on mine. But no, she is probably just scanning over the crowd. No doubt, looking for Gale. He has probably returned from taking Primrose to her mother. Katniss is only worried for Gale. Because there is still a male tribute to choose.

"Look at her. Look at this one!" Haymitch hollers, standing up from his chair. His gait is teetering, as if he's about to collapse. He must be _very _drunk today. The coward. "I like her!" He yells, slinging his arm around Katniss' shoulder. I snarl, not caring what Delly will make of it and turn my wrath towards the drunken once-victor of District 12. Haymitch Abernathy does not deserve to touch Katniss Everdeen. "Lots of... Spunk!" And then he pulls away from Katniss, nearly dragging her with him. Haymitch staggers towards the camera, jamming a finger at the little window that captures the images. "More than you!" He yells, spit flying at the camera man. "More than you!" As his words sink in, I begin to wonder just who it is he's shouting at. Surely not the camera man - he didn't do anything. And not Effie either: she stood behind him, staring in disbelief. Is Abernathy daring to taunt the Capitol?

But we'll never know. Haymitch opens his mouth to continue, and sways again. He tries to steady himself in only the way that a drunk man can, and steps too far to the left. He plummets off the stage, knocking himself unconscious as he hits the ground. I chuckle as Effie sniffs indignantly and gently guides Katniss back to the middle of the stage. She can taunt him all she wishes.

"What an exciting day!" She chirps, as if she can hope to fill the silence that fills the square and begins moving towards the glass ball that contains the names of the boys. I swallow hard._ Gale. _I have wished for so many years that he would be chosen, to get him away from Katniss. To give myself a chance. But this year, I have an entirely different reason. He is the one candidate who I know will protect her in the arena. He will make sure that she comes home alive._ Gale. _"But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!"_ Gale. _With one hand on her hideous wig, Effie Trinket grabs the first slip she touches, and nearly runs back to the podium. I barely have time to process a name has been drawn when she reads the winner of the reaping.

"Peeta Mellark."

**{{Muwahahahahahahah! But we all knew that was going to happen anyways. ;D**

**I'll be the first to admit that I need work with emotional conflict, but if you don't practice, you're not going to get any better. As always, please review! :) }}  
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	3. Chapter 3

**I LOVE REVIEWS! :D You guys made my day. Thanks for taking the time to read this! :) **

I am vaguely aware of Delly standing beside me. Her grip on my hand tightens, and I can tell that she's cutting off the blood flow to my fingers. But the circulation in my hand is the last thing on my mind at this moment. Did Effie Trinket really just read my name? Is Peeta Mellark truly written on that delicate slip of paper that she holds in her hand? I feel the air in my lungs leave in a rush. A soft gasp, barely audible, reaches my ears. And I realize that it was me. I feel bile climbing up the back of my throat. My mouth waters unpleasantly, and I know I am going to throw up any minute now. My knees go from weak to water, and I fear that only Delly is keeping me steady. The seconds pass by like hours. But I am not frightened for myself. Not anymore.

I know that it will be nearly impossible for me to keep Katniss alive. Gale? He knows how to survive. He's a hunter, and he's practically raised himself and his family. He would keep Katniss safe in the arena. But me? It will be a miracle if I make it past opening day, much less keep someone alive. I swallow, trying to keep the sour substance down. I have not had any breakfast, so there is only burning acid to rid my stomach of. But I can't do this now. I cannot afford to show anyone that I am afraid. Especially Katniss. She must keep hope in me. It no longer matters if she loves me or not: I love her, and that is more than enough reason to keep her alive.

"Go, Peeta." Delly whispers, pressing her mouth to my ear. She sounds as shaken and as scared as I am. Only if she knew that I did not fear for myself. She gives my hand what I think is a reassuring squeeze, and releases me. I nod dumbly, and begin shakily moving through the crowd. I cannot show fear. Katniss cannot think that I am afraid. Katniss has to get out of the arena alive. I have no other choice: I am as good as dead without her. Most people would believe my infatuation to be ridiculous. But it is so much more than that. Anyone outside of this might say I hardly know her. Technically, this is true. But I know enough. What I know about her is enough to keep me completely enthralled.

I approach the stage, and I see Effie beaming down at me. Her pearly white teeth are too white to be natural. I've heard that people in the Capitol use bleach to treat their teeth. Because anything that isn't pristine is disgusting. Anything that isn't shining is worthless. The children of District 12 have no worth, because they are not Capitol-bred. They're dispensable. And the people of the Capitol just love seeing the worthless children put to good use. They simply eat up the entertainment that the Hunger Games provide them with. Seeing her impish little smile is enough to steel my resolve. It doesn't matter if Katniss is from 12. She will be winning the Hunger Games this year, or I will die trying to get her home. I climb the steps, and I realize something monumental. My chances are far larger than I dare to hope. Although alliances are allowed in the Hunger Games, never once I have seen an alliance like the one I am about to form.

No one else is willing to die for another candidate. I am. Katniss Everdeen has twice the chance that anyone else does, and not only because she knows how to hunt.

Effie Trinket asks for tributes to take my place in the arena. For a split second, I wish that Gale would step up. That he would come, and that he would make sure that Katniss gets back to 12 - and not in a simple pine coffin. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Katniss give the most minute shake of her head. I follow her gaze, and I see that she's staring right at Gale. She doesn't want him with her. She loves him too much to let him die for her. From within the masses of the crowd, I can see Gale Hawthorne clench his jaw. But as Effie calls again for tributes, he remains silent. Perhaps it's better like this. Katniss will have someone to come home to, someone that she loves. If Gale were to take my place, she would be coming home alone. I know that she would not end up like Haymitch, a drunken coward, but his loss would be unbearable. How would I feel if she died?

I have to remember that she feels the same way. Only, her affections are not directed at me, but at the son of a coal miner. I have a feeling that I'll be losing Katniss the same way that my father lost her mother. Eventually, Gale will be a coal miner as well. But how can a baker compete with a hunter, with a provider? Perhaps if we lived somewhere else, somewhere where food was not so hard to come by, I might have a chance. But we live in District 12. We live in the poorest District in the country. Here, food is exceedingly hard to get.

Even working in the bakery, there are many nights that I go to bed with an empty stomach. We're only allowed to eat scraps, burnt bread, or anything that has gone stale. The only thing I've eaten that is anywhere near fresh is the meat that either Katniss or Gale brings to my father in trade of fresh bread. It turns out that squirrel tastes pretty good, kind of like wild turkey. I've had that at a wedding once.

Effie finally seems to get the fact that no one will be stepping up for me, and that she's not going to get that entertaining sacrifice twice. She steps back, and lets Mayor Undersee begin the Treaty of Treason. From what I know of the past, treaties were signed by both parties of a war to bring an end to the disagreement. Treaties require set-backs on both sides, and usually, they do. But this treaty is more of a law, something that twelve Districts were forced into seventy-four years ago. The Treaty of Treason is what gives us the Hunger Games: the sick, twisted, form of punishment that the Capitol crams down our throats. The rules of the Hunger Games are simple. A girl and a boy from each District, called tributes, are placed in an engineered arena. This arena is filled with thousands of different ways to kill a person. And it changes every year, so you never know what you're going up against. And if the arena doesn't kill you, then another tribute will. Every year, twenty-four girls and boys go in, and only one comes out alive.

The winner of the Hunger Games is showered with money and gifts, and their District receives all kinds of gifts from the Capitol. Like extra wheat, extra grain, extra oil, or extra sugar. Pretty much anything you would need to keep the population of a District on its feet for a year. But while one District is given gifts, and money, and anything else they need, the other eleven Districts basically are dying of starvation. It's a crime against humanity. But it's not like the Capitol cares. As long as they get their bleach for their teeth, their surgeries for their overly-full bellies, and their Hunger Games, they're very happy with the system that they're living in.

And we're stuck like this. It isn't like we can actually face the Capitol, or take it down. Who wants a repeat of the Dark Days? Who wants something even worse than the Hunger Games as punishment? We're all too cowardly to do anything about it other than live our miserable little lives out in hunger.

Finally, the Mayor comes to a close. I already know the procedure that is to follow, and I'm sure that Katniss does too. After all, we've been watching this all of our lives. Perhaps she has not, because she is the oldest child and as only been required to come to the reapings for only the past four years. But I have older brothers, and I have been to every reaping that they have been to - which is before I can remember. I turn towards Katniss, holding out my hand to shake with her's.

Traditionally, this is the last time that we will see each other as neighbors, or as friends. But laying down your life for another tribute isn't exactly traditional. My eyes lock with her grey ones, but I can tell she's distracted. I want to believe that she's thinking about Primrose, but I know that thoughts of Hawthorne must be crossing her mind. A short moment passes without her moving, and I consider clearing my throat to get her attention. But that would only embarrass her, or even worse, damage the already poor opinion of the tributes from 12. With a jerky little wave the Mayor motions for Katniss to shake my hand.

Fluidly, Katniss does so, placing her hand in mine without hesitation. I grip her hand tightly, hoping to alleviate the panic I see in her eyes. It does not seem to work. Suddenly, the anthem of Panem blasts around us, breaking the silence that has been left in the wake of the Treaty of Treason. I nearly cringe at the sheer volume of the music. The harsh notes of the jerky tune bounce around the inside of my skull, reminding me of the Capitol it was composed for. It's got a nice harmony, lyrical even, but underneath it the notes are sharp and unforgiving. Just like the city itself. I've seen the Capitol broadcast on our television every year during the annual Hunger Games. It's a beautiful place, with unimaginable architecture and sights. But it's disgusting and dark all the same.

After forty-three painful seconds, the anthem finishes off with a flourish, and Katniss and I are immediately led into the Justice Building of District 12. I am flanked by two Peacekeepers, each one taking one of my arms. It's not as if I plan on running off, but I apparently, I am precious enough for another human to waste their time on. Being a tribute suddenly makes me more than Peeta Mellark – I am now some twisted kind of bright, shiny, new toy for the Capitol to play with. And I am completely at their mercy.

I am nearly dragged through the large double doors, and led into the only building that could even begin to resemble splendor in the District. It must have taken years to build this place. White marble seems to be everywhere, and I've learned enough in school to know that anything white is expensive. Whether it be fabric or stone, white is in high demand. It's pristine and it's pure. It's just the sort of thing that Capitol people like. I don't know why they've bothered to build something as intricate and expensive as the Justice Building here. It's not as if anyone here has the time to admire it. We're too busy working for our next meal. I am only able to take a glance at the interior of the chandelier lit hall before I am led into a secure room and the door is bolted behind me.

Although my lavish prison cannot compare to the grand staircase and triple tiered chandelier, it's much nicer than any place I've ever been in. The walls are creamy yellow in coloring, and due to the dim lighting, look much darker than they actually are. The floor is covered in a thick, blood-red carpet. It's so thick I can feel my shoes sinking into it. I consider taking off my shoes and enjoying the plush carpeting while I can, but I realize that it would only be time consuming and make me look dim-witted before all of Panem. Although I've never seen the private goodbyes of the tributes broadcasted, there's no telling what the Capitol is capable of. Instead, I move towards the dark red loveseat that occupies the center of the room and sink into the velvet cushion. It's far more comfortable than any other chair we have in our house. How much had this couch cost? Surely, it is enough to keep any family in food for a month. Again, disgust cripples my thoughts of fear. It's so wrong – everything here is wrong. Morally, and ethically. Don't the people of the Capitol feel any remorse for what they demand of us? Of course, they don't. They're too wrapped up in their own little lives. My fist digs into the cushion, grasping the red velvet tightly.

It's sickening.

Finally, I hear the lock on the door that contains me click open. I look up and see my father entering, the blood completely drained from his face. Although he has not been the best parent, at least I know he cares. At least I know he loves me. I smile weakly at him, and he comes and sits beside me on the couch. His weight sinks into the cushion beside mine, and his hand tightens around my wrist. I know he loves me. He doesn't have to say anything to me. He wouldn't be here if he didn't. I continue to look towards the door in false hopes that my mother will make an appearance. Perhaps I've been right all along; she might actually think that I'm just a waste of space.

"She'll be coming along," my father reassures me quietly. I say nothing in return, knowing that he'll appreciate my silence. He's always been a quiet man himself. Maybe he wasn't like this before he met my mother, but I'll never know. We wait in silence. There isn't anything to be said, really. There's nothing that we can do. After a few moments, the door swings open again and my mother steps in. Her icy eyes lock on mine, and I know that I will not be getting any more sympathy than I got this morning. It's pathetic. Even in the face of death, she cannot show love to her child. I don't think she was ever taught how to love in the first place. My mother just stands there, not moving towards me. Does she not wish to hold me in one last embrace? I search her expression for sadness, or remorse, and I only find cold satisfaction. It seems that she's happy to have me go. I can feel my expression falter and I'm met with a disapproving frown. My heart twists and tears in my chest. She truly does not care.

"Why me?" I ask rhetorically, knowing that I will never have the answer that I want. I doubt she even knows what I'm truly wondering about.

"How would I know?" She snaps, crossing her arms over her chest dominantly. I can feel my father's grasp tighten around my wrist. My heart pounds, and for the first time in my life I dare to hope that he will come to my defense. But I'm sure that it's too much to ask for. I'm sure that she's finally able to register the pain in my expression is directed at her, because she gives a distasteful _tsk_ and leans herself against the wall. As if she can't wait to be as far away as possible. "Don't look at me like it's my fault. It's not like I _chose_ you to be a tribute."

Her words hurt me more than I would have thought possible. She's defending herself. There is no excuse for the way she's treated me for all these years, or the way that she's treating me now. I have tried to comprehend what I've done wrong, but I'm done trying to figure her out. I'm about to die: I'm prepared to die for a girl I've never even spoken to, and she's trying to pretend that I'm attacking her. I've done nothing wrong. I don't even bother trying to hide my sudden anger. I glare at her, and she seems not to notice. My father's grip on my wrist is comforting, and it gives me the courage to continue with this. If I don't ask now, I'll never know.

"But would you, Mother?" My question hangs in the air, and she examines one of her nails while wearing a thoughtful expression. I should be happy she's wasting the time considering her answer. At least I'm worth more than a flat out yes. But her pause cuts me, nearly bone deep. What have I done to deserve such a monster for a mother?

"Of course not, Peeta. Don't be ridiculous. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's incompetence." I keep quiet after her answer, as I'm not entirely sure what to say. She's acting as if I asked her a simple question. I just asked her if she loves me or not – and all she had to say was 'Of course'. But what has she done to prove it? Nothing. The three of us sit in silence. I can't even begin to comprehend what my father might be thinking, nor my mother. It's too hard to tell with them. I can feel my ten allowed minutes slipping away, and I know that this is the last time I will be seeing my mother. But I can't bring myself to care. It's not like she's ever acted happy to see me. After sixteen years of trying, it seems that I've finally given up.

It's not like she cares.

"You know," My mother says suddenly, "Maybe District 12 will finally have a winner." My heart stops. The last thing I expected from her was encouragement. I look up from the floor and stare at her, my jaw hanging slightly open. Just what is she getting at? "She's a survivor, that one. She's got a chance." It takes a few seconds for my brain to process what my mother has just said. She's referring to Katniss. My own mother is choosing another tribute over me. For a split second, I forget that it's my mission to keep Katniss alive, and I consider winning just to spite the woman that gave birth to me. I clench my jaw and continue to stare at her, and she gives an innocent shrug of her shoulders. And suddenly, I feel tears building up in my eyes. She truly does not care. And unlike a few moments ago, this seriously bothers me. I've wasted so much time worrying and wondering what I've done wrong. And it was never me. She never loved me to begin with.

We sit our remaining minutes out in silence, and when the Peacekeepers call them out my mother leaves without a backward glance. My father pulls me into a final hug, crushing my body against his.

"I'm sorry," He murmurs, and then gets up from the couch and leaves. Only once their gone do I realize that I did not tell either of them that I love them. Remorse topples my reserve, and tears begin leaking down my face. Of course, my father must know that I do love him. He has to know.

When the door creaks open again I do not bother looking up. I hear light footsteps shuffling across the blood colored carpet, and I'm aware of the presence of another person. I can see the bottom of a dark blue skirt from the position that my head is in, but there's nothing familiar about it. I can't know who it is without looking up, but I honestly don't care. I've already seen my father; it's not like anyone else cares about me. What finally gets my attention is the voice I hear. And it's definitely not the woman in front of me.

**Again, with the bad splitting, but I really hate trying to read something that's incredibly long... Mayhaps this is a sign I shouldn't be quite so blabby? :D On another note, please review! **


	4. Chapter 4

"Mama?" That's a little girl. In curiosity, I look up, and I see Primrose Everdeen standing in the doorway. My eyes move towards the owner of the blue skirt, and I see her mother. I'm slightly surprised by her being here. There's no reason for her to come and see me, as I've never spoken to her. Her kind blue eyes stare down at me sympathetically, the shallow lines on her face suggesting that she used to lead a life of laughter. My father told me once that he had wanted to marry her. I often wonder how different my life would have been if I had had her for a mother, but these thoughts are usually turned away in remembrance of the fact that if my father had married her that I would not have Katniss. Not that Katniss is mine as it is, or that she will ever be.

Mrs. Everdeen turns back towards the door at the sound of Prim's voice. "Stay there, Prim. I need to talk to Peeta." Primrose looks frightened though and once she glances back out the door it's clear why. The Peacekeepers are frightening as it is. I know I'd be afraid of waiting alone with them if I were Primrose.

"It's alright," I say quietly, my voice thick with emotion. I don't bother wiping the tears from my face as I address Katniss' mother. It's not like it matters anymore. "I won't be coming home. I doubt there's anything that I wouldn't mind her knowing at this point. It's really alright." The widow's expression shifts from sympathy to confliction, and I smile weakly in reassurance. It really doesn't matter what Primrose knows at this point. It isn't as if what the twelve year old knows will affect Katniss in the arena – and that's all I care about. She sighs, and I can clearly see that she's tired. No doubt, she just said goodbye to her daughter.

Mrs. Everdeen swallows, and motions for Primrose to join us in the tiny room. The skinny little girl still looks panicked, but she looks relieved by her mother's verdict. She takes stiff little steps into the room, and she looks as if her fear from the reaping has not yet worn off yet. I don't blame her. I know just how she feels, except for the fact that I'm going in with Katniss. I'm sure that both of Katniss' remaining family members are just as crushed as I am that she is going into the arena, and that she's being taken away from them. I owe it to them to get her home.

Primrose clings to her mother's skirt in the way that a small child would, but her mother doesn't even seem to notice her. No, Katniss' only surviving parent is looking only at me. I'm not sure what to expect from her. She is still sympathetic and her blue eyes are filled with a pain that is tangible. I bite the inside of my lip in trepidation, because although I know that she is nothing like my own mother, there is no telling what she's like when her child's life is on the line. From what I know from my father, she's charming. But with Katniss' life hanging in the balance, I could be dealing with an entirely different creature.

Mrs. Everdeen eventually moves, and I can nearly feel my anxiety melt away as she does. But her actions are surprising. She kneels down to my eye-level and begins brushing the tears away from my face. It occurs to me that she's acting in the way that my mother should have all along. Essentially, she's the mother that I never had. She murmurs something under her breath, something I'm sure that I wasn't supposed to hear. Just like my father, am I? That's far better than being compared to my mother. Normally, such a comparison would make me smile, but these are not normal circumstances. Quietly, Mrs. Everdeen slides onto the cushion beside me, and Primrose dutifully takes a seat at her mother's feet.

"Peeta," the older woman finally begins, but she sounds as if she's struggling to find her words. "I… I don't know if your father ever told you about this or not –"

"Yes." I cut her off, as I've heard this story a couple of times throughout my life. My father doesn't like to talk about his first love, especially so when my mother is around. I could never understand why he married my mother after falling for someone as gentle as Mrs. Everdeen. They're so different that it's mindboggling. "I know that he loved you… And I know that it didn't work out." I turn towards Katniss' mother as she looks towards the floor. Is that regret? I'll never know.

"It was a long time ago." She says softly, and I watch as she takes a gentle hold of the delicate gold chain draped around her neck. "He gave me this," she pulls her necklace out from underneath the neckline of her dress, and dangling delicately is a ring. It's beautifully crafted, with a simple golden band. The centerpiece diamond is nothing special, not too large, but it's very nice. It must have cost my father a fortune. My mother's wedding ring is not nearly as nice. Just then, I'm struck by the thought that my father may very well still love the aging beauty beside me. It explains why he's so kind to Primrose: she's her mother's spitting image. The fact that everyone loves Prim has kept his thoughts hidden. "I did love him. But…" She trails off quietly, and a gentle blush colors her cheeks.

"When it became clear that we could not continue as we had, I tried to give your father his ring back. But he refused to take it back. Not because he was in denial or anything, but because he wanted me to have it – whether or I married him or not. He told me that no matter who I went with that he would love me. I suppose he saw this as me keeping a piece of him. And I could never bring myself to sell it. I've been trying to think of a way to give it back to him for years… Peeta, do you have a token yet?"

A token is the very last thing on my mind. Why would I worry about bringing a piece of home into the arena when I've got Katniss to be worried about? I shake my head for an answer and she continues. "Since you don't have one, I would like you to take this. I've never been able to give it back. Trying to give it to one of your brothers would have been suspicious, and I did not want to upset your mother. Here, take it." Quickly, she unclasps the chain from her neck and takes my hand. She places the ring in the center of my palm, and lets the chain pool up around it. Firmly, she closes my hand around it, and I can feel the diamond digging into my hand.

"Take it as a reminder of your father. As a piece of home." She looks straight at me, and my icy eyes meet with her darker blue ones. Somewhere, hidden beneath the lines and dark circles under her eyes is a youthful happiness. It's a happiness that hasn't visited her face in far too many years. "I know that this is not the same as having him there with you, but it has his love in it. Let that comfort you." And as the words leave her mouth, I know that she isn't just talking about my father. Subtly, she's slipping Katniss in here as well. I don't know if she knows how I feel, but it doesn't matter. I'll be getting her out of there alive regardless of what her mother does or doesn't know.

"I will." I say firmly, promising her that I'll do as she says. But we both know that I'm not just talking about the ring. I see relief flood her eyes and she suddenly pulls me into a hug.

And then the Peacekeepers call for her to and Primrose to leave, and I suddenly don't want her to go. She's the mother that I should have had, and by all rights, I should have had her love growing up. "Goodbye, Peeta." She says softly, and kisses my cheek. And there, I can feel the lingering love that she still holds for my father. I feel myself choking up again, and I'm unable to say anything as she and Primrose leave my sight forever. I know that I have time to allow for more visitors, but I doubt that anyone else will come. Instead, I take this opportunity to try and steady my emotions. I feel as if I'm about to cry, and there's no point in holding it in and falling apart in front of Katniss. For the next ten minutes I weep, stifling my cries into one of the plush velvet pillows. As my time draws to a close, I hear a knock on my door. The Peacekeepers will be coming in any minute now.

Quickly, I wipe my nose on the pillow as a final retaliation to the Capitol, and take the ring out of my fist. I've been clutching it so tightly I'm relieved to see that it's still intact. I shakily clasp the gold chain around my neck and drop the ring underneath my shirt. It will stay safe there.

Just as I pull my hands away from the back of my neck two of the Peacekeepers come into the room and take my arms. Of course, they won't be holding me like this all the way to the Capitol, or even all the way to the train station. But for some reason, they've decided that I'm most likely to run away in the Justice Building, especially so now that the entire District knows that I am to compete. And they think we're the stupid ones.

Just like last time, I'm treated with a surprising amount of decency, as far as gentleness goes. If they weren't Peacekeepers, and I wasn't heading to my death, I'd even say that they were happy to be here. I'm not quite dragged back out of the front doors of the Justice Building. I'm surprised to see that the square is totally empty, even the stage is gone. As I think back to previous years, I remember that most people want to leave as quickly as they can and get back on with their lives. After all, who wants to linger in a place where you can nearly taste the fear? The square is really the only nice place in all of 12, and the bright atmosphere that it would have is totally ruined by the reaping. It seems that the District is only just recovering the ordeal when the reapings roll around again.

Maybe that's the way the Capitol wants it to be.

And there, waiting for me just before the marble steps is a shiny black car. That's the car that's taking me to my doom, as far as I'm concerned. Not many people in District 12 can afford cars, and I've only seen few besides the shiny black ones that the Capitol uses for sanctioned duties. Since traveling between Districts is illegal, and the residents of the Capitol hardly have reason to leave their utopia, I've only ever seen black cars used for the transportation of tributes. While I've never been in one of the menacing automobiles myself, I've seen it broadcast plenty of times. Usually, we only ever see Careers stepping into the cars that are taking them on to glory, but every so often you can catch sight of District 7, or even 10 loading up. You never see 12 though. There isn't really anything that special about coal dust dirtied barbarians loading up into the spotless cars.

I'm lead down the stairs, and then the Peacekeeper on my right opens the car door for me unceremoniously. I let myself slide onto the leather seat, and the door is quickly shut behind me. The windows have been blacked out, and there's a barrier between myself and the front seats. I can't see anything except for the tiny rectangle of space that is the backseat. It hits me then that I won't ever see District 12 again. I didn't even bother looking towards the bakery that's been my only home. But it's a hollow idea. I already knew that I wasn't going to be coming back.

I'll miss a few of the people though, especially my father and Mrs. Everdeen. As I think of Katniss' mother, the ring suddenly feels cold against my skin. The circumstances that brought me that ring are laughable. I lean back into the dark seat of the car, letting the cushion mold itself around my shoulders. Am I doing the right thing? Back in the Justice Building, it seemed like Mrs. Everdeen really did care about me. But of course, she'd want her own child over me. My own mother prefers Katniss over me.

After a few minutes spent in silent thought, the left door of the car opens and Katniss slides onto the seat. The door slams behind her, leaving us both in the dark. Just then, I hear the engine of the car start to life, and we begin slowly pulling away from the Justice Building. She doesn't say anything and neither do I. Quickly we drive through District 12 and arrive at the train station. I've never been her either. Since traveling between Districts is forbidden, there's never been any reason for me to come down here. They're only sending precious coal off towards the Capitol, as that's the only thing that we produce here in 12. And of course, here's where the tributes are picked up. But I don't think it's legal for spectators to come here. Not that anyone would want to see two children off to their death.

Katniss and I are practically shoved out of the car, and set to stand before the milling paparazzi. I stand stiffly, hoping that I don't look absolutely terrified. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that Katniss doesn't even look as if she's been crying. In fact, she looks even stronger than she did at the reaping. Without a respite, the cameras begin flashing. The lights are incredibly bright, and it's very hard not to shut my eyes. But the last thing I want to do is make District 12 look dimwitted as that could cost Katniss and I the sponsors I need to keep her alive. I glance over at the camera that's taking the live feed of us, and I suddenly realize that I haven't gotten a chance to clean up since crying in the Justice Building. My eyes are bloodshot, and my nose is red. I look panicked, insecure, and utterly weak.

I have the sinking feeling that I've just ruined any chances that I had for getting sponsors. And with that, I've just dragged Katniss' chances of survival down significantly.

**Well, he had to get a token from somewhere! Let me know your thoughts! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'd like to give a special thanks to PursingDesign and Canadian-Girl14, because you guys are AMAZING. Thanks so much for your encouragement! :D And, I think I'm supposed to say something about how I don't own the Hunger Games... So I don't own the Hunger Games. But anyways, onto the story! **

After several more excruciating minutes, we are finally allowed to step into the train. As the mechanical doors slide shut behind us, I take in the place that will be my prison for the next day. The train is even fancier than the Justice Building, with exquisite carpeting and decorations. This is nothing like the older, rustic trains that are used to transport the coal to the Capitol. No, this must be one of the newer models. I've learned about theses in school, during a brief lesson on technological advancements. These trains reach blinding speeds – somewhere near three hundred miles per hour. It's funny, that we would be provided with such luxury before we are set fighting to the death. President Snow must be sending us in one of these for Effie's comfort. Of course, she will need to be gradually reintroduced into the lavish lifestyle of the Capitol after spending a day among barbarians.

Speak of the devil. Effie comes waddling in from a compartment off to the left, and she looks genuinely surprised to see us. It's almost as if she expected us not to be here. Her expression is so comical it's a struggle not to laugh. She's still wearing the hideous green getup from the reaping and it surprises me that she hasn't changed yet. I always thought that people in the Capitol went through several sets of clothing in a day, simply because they have nothing better to do than change their clothes. Effie zooms towards Katniss, and begins chattering about a thousand different things. Several of the things she says could be taken as insults, but I assume that that's just how all Capitol people behave. Katniss doesn't seem to take it personally, so I try not to let it bother me. But even if I had wanted to say something, I don't get the time to. Effie Trinket squeals something unintelligible and drags Katniss off to the left – towards her personal apartments, I assume.

I wait alone for a moment, until it's clear that Effie won't be reappearing to whisk me off to my oh-so-magical room. I sigh, and for the first time since boarding the train I move away from the door. I prop myself up against one of the walls, and I'm surprised by how solid it feels. It's cold too. Even though my father's shirt I can feel the heat being sucked away from my body. And for the first time today, I feel like I'm totally alone. After everything that has happened, it's kind of nice to get a break. It seems impossible that this morning I was icing cakes. My life feels like a million miles away. At least now, my mother won't be so irritated by me. Who knows, she might even be borderline pleasant now that I'm gone and out of her life. My eldest brother will be moving out soon, and after a few more years of dealing with her second child, she'll have the entire place to herself. And now that I'm gone, she'll get to ice the cakes again. That's an irritating thought, as she was never really good at it in the first place. My father will have a grand time trying to sell the cakes now.

And now when she's angry, she no longer has a safe kicking post. I'm gone. My brothers aren't bothered by it, and my father has always slinked away from her anger anyways. Now, the only thing that she can take her anger out on is… My face pales as I remember Sesame. There's no way that my cat will survive a week without me to protect her. My mother has made threats to kill her before, and now that I'm not there to stop her, I'm sure that she'll gladly carry those threats out.

I could have asked Primrose to take her. I could have asked my father to make sure that she finds a good home. I could have done _something _to protect the only other thing that I care about. Katniss? I'm going with her. I'm doing everything I can to make sure that she makes it out alive. But Sesame? I didn't spare a second thought for her. I scratched her ears and walked out the door without sparing a glance backwards. I cling to that memory, and I try to preserve it as best I can. Because now, it's all I have of my beloved cat. It's not like I can make a call home and ask someone to take care of her for me. Nope, I've lost that window of opportunity. All because I was being selfish, and I was too wrapped up in my own problems. I can hardly believe I've done this. Sesame depends on me to protect her from my mother. And somehow, I've managed to overlook one of the most important aspects of my life.

It's enough to make me want to shatter one of the windows behind me. I bite down harshly on the inside of my cheek to keep from shouting, and shut my eyes. I don't want to see anything that has anything to do with the Capitol. I don't want to hear the sharp racket of the train gliding across the tracks either, because it's a Capitol produced train. I wish that I didn't have to feel the wall behind me, or taste any of the food that they put in front of me. Because now, I'm beyond hating the Capitol – if there's an emotion past hate, it's what I'm feeling now. Technically, it's my own fault that Sesame isn't going to make it out of this week. But I blame it on the Capitol's rule anyway. If they had not decided to impose the Districts with the despicable form of punishment known as the Hunger Games, I would not have been selected as a tribute. If I were not a tribute, I'd be able to take care of my cat. I'd be able to keep on living, and even if it was a bleak existence, it was better than being a puppet. It was better than being a shiny, bright, toy for the citizens of the Capitol to marvel at. It was better than not having an identity at all. Now, I'm not Peeta Mellark, or even the nameless boy who frosts the cakes. I'm the boy from District 12. And just like the boy from District 12 last year, I'm going to die a very gruesome, bloody, and entertaining death.

I hope that I'm funny when I'm dying. The least I can do is be as entertaining as I possibly can. Perhaps I'll be remembered that way, or even compared to the next boy from 12. Only the winners are 'immortalized'. I bet that most people in the Capitol can only remember the victors two years past. I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts that I don't hear the Capitol servant approach me.

"Sir?" He says this hollowly, as if he wishes he could be doing something more entertaining. Apparently, I'm worthless to him too. I cautiously open one of my eyes, and I'm disgusted to see how perfect the man is. Is this how everyone looks in the Capitol? So perfect and lovely that it's horrifying? But then I remember Effie Trinket. And she's far from perfect. I bet she can't afford the surgeries that are required to become perfect. After all, she's stuck being the escort for the poorest District in Panem. I say nothing to this tall, lean, disgustingly handsome servant. He doesn't seem to mind my apathy, and this bothers me even more. I am nothing, even to the servant on the train.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take you to your apartments. You'll need to freshen up before dinner is served." So I need to freshen up? There's nothing wrong with a little flour on your hands, or with coal dust rimming your face. When you live in a coal mining District, you really can't escape the black powder. It's everywhere. And if the Capitol isn't going to pay to clean out the District, then they'll just have to look at us with our slightly blackened faces. I glare at the servant, and he doesn't seem to care. I'm not even worth the energy that it takes to be offended. What am I, an animal? I bet the actual livestock in District 10 is treated better than the tributes of the Hunger Games.

Without waiting for me to reply, the servant turns on his heels and stalks off. For how angry I am, I'm quick to follow him. The last thing I want to do is get lost in the train and make myself look like an idiot. Most idiots don't get very many sponsors.

The servant leads me off to the left, in the same general direction of Katniss' apartments. We turn down a few corridors, until he deposits me outside the door of what I assume to be my rooms. He doesn't say anything else, and turns away without looking at me. I'm glad that he's gone. I glare after him childishly, and I nearly hope that he can tell that I'm angry with him. Not that it seems to bother him, or anything. After the servant has rounded the corner, I sigh, and twist the doorknob that leads into where I'll be living until we reach the Capitol. As I push the door in to go inside, something catches me off my guard. A hacking, loud, cough breaks the silence, and I groan inwardly. I even get to sleep next door to my new best friend, Haymitch Abernathy. Lovely.

I consider just going inside and drowning him out with the noise of my bath tub, but I realize that tormenting a drunken man could be fun. After all, he won't remember it in the morning. And he's done absolutely nothing to earn my good opinion. He's just going to end up getting me killed on opening day, and he'll be having the last laugh as it is. I might as well have fun while I'm still alive.

Quietly, I shut my door completely, and sneak over towards Haymitch's door. It's not like I'm going to be caught by anyone, and even if I am, it should be perfectly normal for a tribute to visit their mentor. I wouldn't know though, because I've never been a tribute before. I didn't ever plan on being one. And because none of this is ever broadcast, I have a large margin for error here. And what's the worst that anyone could do? It's illegal for anyone to touch me before the Hunger Games actually begin. Technically, I'm invincible. Perhaps there is one good thing about being selected to compete in the Hunger Games: for the next week, I can do whatever I want.

And besides, it's not like having a little fun with Haymitch will ruin Katniss' chance for survival. The worst it can do is ruin mine, which is really just increasing her's. After all, if she's his favorite, then she'll be getting all of his help. All the more reason for me to do it.

Trying to be as silent as I can, I push Haymitch's door open and slide into his room. It's pitch black, and my only light source is that of the light from the hallway spilling through the crack I've made in the doorway. I stand still for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the lighting. I decide to leave the door open so I don't trip over my own feet. Slowly, I begin moving towards what I think is the bed, and I hear a loud hiccup. Yup. That's Haymitch, getting drunk when he should be planning how to keep Katniss and me alive. It's absolutely despicable. I let this thought ferment in my mind as I creep closer to the bed, trying to form a plan. I can't remember what I was planning on doing when I got here.

"Shut teh dourh!" Haymitch bellows, pulling up a pillow to his face to hide from the light. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. Maybe I won't have to come up with something to do after all.

"No." I say mockingly, coming over to the side of his bed.

"Kill deh lites!" He shouts again, trying to roll over onto his stomach. Now I actually do laugh, but quietly. I'm still slightly apprehensive about being caught. But this is rather fun, and it's going to take more than a disapproving glare from a Capitol puppet to make me say otherwise. "I… I wanna nahhp." Haymitch then twists in his sheets, and pulls the pillow back over his head. I pause, and try to think of something witty to say. But just how witty can one be when dealing with the drunk? Or when dealing with a coward? I wait too long, and loud, obnoxious snoring fills the room. I sigh in disappointment, and then quietly leave his room, careful to shut his door. After all, I want him to think that this is a dream. Or better yet, not remember it at all.

I know that dinner will be served soon, as I can hear that a racket's being made a little down the hall. No doubt, that's Effie preparing herself for her seventh meal of the day. I wonder if she's ever gone hungry before. Probably not, judging by her abnormal width. And how exactly am I supposed to get clean in only a few minutes? I step into my room, and after a few moments of hunting around, I find my bathroom. Only, there isn't a bath in here – there's something else entirely. Cautiously, I step into the glass box, and I only see a round dial on the wall. I look up, and I see something that looks like an attachment that one would place on a hose. But I know that I have to use this tiny space to get myself clean, as the soap is resting on the tile floor.

"How do I work this?" I ask myself, and I begin toying with the dial on the wall. I twist it to the far right, and I nearly jump out of my skin when water comes pouring down from the ceiling. I yell in shock, and I try to get out of the way before my clothes are soaked. I slip backwards into one of the glass walls with my entire body weight, and I'm surprised that I don't end up breaking it. Instead, I end up slouched on the floor, and my pants are entirely soaked. My shirt is getting there. The water seems to be getting hotter and hotter – uncomfortably so. I try to push myself up, but my shoes slip on the tile of the floor. I growl in frustration as I crash back down to the floor. By now, the water is scalding, and it's actually painful. It feels like it's burning my skin, and judging by the red color of my arms, it is. Again, I try getting up, this time using the dial to pull me up to my feet. I somehow turn it to the far left as I stand, and as I finally find my feet, the water turns to ice. Muttering the most colorful words I know, I turn the water completely off by twisting the dial all the way to the left, and I stand in the glass box for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts. This must be what a shower is.

I've heard about these – according to Capitol propaganda, it's an easy, hygienic, and effective way to get clean. Sure, showers are super easy. I glare up at the hose protruding for the wall, as if it can tell that I'm upset with it. But of course it can't – it's a hunk of metal. It has one purpose and one alone. And when it's done serving that purpose, it will be thrown away. In a really strange way, the shower is a bit like me. Except, it can't feel pain, and it can't die. Oddly enough, I find myself envying the shower. But then I remember that I'm in here for a reason, and apparently, I'm not clean enough to suit Effie Trinket. Fine, Effie. I'll come out of this shower cleaner than I've ever been in my entire life.

I strip off my sopping wet clothing and leave it lying in the floor. Then, I mess around with the dial for a while until I find a temperature that's suitable and begin scrubbing myself down. It takes nearly a quarter of an hour, but my skin is so clean that I think I might sparkle, and my hair is shiny and silky. As I dress myself, I realize that I'm not just the Capitol's puppet, but I'm also its twisted pet. They'll dress me up for the Opening Ceremonies, train me for three days to make sure I'll behave when I'm left on my own, and even give me a score based on how well I listen to their commands. After that, they'll let me loose into an arena and watch me preform. If I'm lucky, my death might even be mourned. They might as well rename me.

As I button up the collar of a shirt I've pulled out from one of the drawers, I realize that they already _have_ given me a new name. Because I'm not even Peeta Mellark anymore: now, I'm just the boy from District 12. And I'm going to die as the nameless boy from 12. No one cares what my name is, or that I have a cat who I love. No one cares if I'm keeping the ring my father gave the woman he loved, or what I do with it. No one cares if I die at knifepoint or by strangulation. All the Capitol wants to see is death. Not even my own mother cares if I come home or not.

Again, I've managed to work myself up into a frenzy. I have to pause in front of my mirror for a few minutes before I'm ready to go out and face Effie Trinket. Right now, she's really the one that I'm mad at. It's her fault that Katniss and I are here, because she drew the wrong names from the reaping. If only if her fat little hands had grabbed for two different strips, Katniss and I would not be here. And neither of us would be facing death. Neither of us would be at the Capitol's mercy. So while the Capitol gave us the Treaty of Treason, and the Hunger Games, Effie Trinket brought me my nightmare.

And there's absolutely nothing that I can do about it. I've never heard of a tribute killing their escort, but I know that it would cost both Katniss and me. And I can't let anything get in the way of Katniss making it home alive. Especially something as petty as this. Effie is insufferable, but it isn't as if she chose Primrose or me on purpose. This thought is no consolation to me, but that is only one more reason as to why I can't touch Effie. It's not as if I'd do anything even if I could. I know that I can't kill anyone. At least, not without being attacked first. If I want to survive long enough to get Katniss home, that's going to have to change, and change quickly.

I make my way to the dining compartment, gripping the walls as the train rocks. It's hard to stay on my feet, but I'm sure that I'll figure it out sooner or later. Really, it's not like I need to get used to it. This train ride will be over by tomorrow afternoon, and I'll never be getting on a train again. Technically, my body will be transported home by train, but it's not like I'll be worried about how to stay on my feet while I'm in a nailed shut coffin.

I arrive at the dining room, and I'm pleasantly surprised to see that I'm the only one here. At least I'll have a little longer to myself before Effie Trinket comes back bustling through the door.

I take my seat at the left side of the table, making sure that I've left the head and the bottom of the table free for Haymitch and Effie. I doubt that he'll be coming to dinner though, as he seemed to be very hung-over back in his room. I chuckle as I picture him rolling off his bed. He's drunk enough that if he were to do that he probably wouldn't even notice. In fact, with the movement of the train, I wouldn't be surprised if he was already on the floor passed out. How depressing this has to be for him. He's got to make this journey every year, all the while putting up with Effie Trinket. I'm sure that a few years back that there was a different escort, but I know that Effie has been in the business of escorting the tributes of 12 to their deaths for at least the past six years. Before that, I can't really remember. But it's not like that matters in the big scheme of things. It's not as if knowing the name of the escort from seven years ago will help me keep myself or Katniss alive.

I wait for a few minutes, passing the time by sipping my ice water and looking at the incredible amount of dishes that we've been given – all for this one meal. Each place at the table has at least three different glasses, and there are two plates _and_ a bowl for each person. Just how much food are we going to be getting? My stomach growls loudly and rudely, and I realize that I have not eaten anything today. My mouth starts watering, and I hope that Effie hurries up with whatever it is that's keeping her. Surely, she can't still be trying to fix that terrible pink wig of her's. I don't think that there was ever any hope for that hairstyle. I bet that she'd look better with her natural hair color – even if it's gray.

Just as I start idly banging my spoon against my glass, making sure not to break it, Effie's form comes waddling out from the hallway. Quickly, I throw my spoon down with a clatter, but I don't think she notices.

"Where's Haymitch?" Her voice sounds like nails being scraped down a chalkboard. The accents that the Capitol people have are ridiculous. I try not to wince, and I have to think a moment about my response. Of course, he's laying drunk in bed, but I'm not sure if I should technically know this or not.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap." Surprisingly, it's quite easy to say this with a straight face. But then I remember that Effie Trinket it a brainless, puffed up, twit. It's easier to lie to idiots. I don't even have to try to keep myself under control as Katniss take the seat across from me. I know that she has to feel the same way.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day." Those, high, clipped syllables could have been sympathetic, if she had not been lying though her teeth. But I'm just as happy as she is that Haymitch has decided to forgo dinner. I don't really want to deal with his drunken antics. After all, this is the last day that I will spend as myself. As soon as I'm handed over to the Capitol stylists, my identity will truly be stripped away. All that will be left of me will be my father's ring. And that's if it clears the review board. If the Capitol happens to decide that somehow a simple wedding band gives me unfair advantage, then it's gone forever. Good thing the diamond is a round cut. If it were square, I might be able to stab someone with the corner of a ring I can't even fit on my pinky finger.

As soon as Effie manages to fit herself into one of the chairs, our dinner is served. I don't think that I have ever seen so much food before. Not even during the holiday seasons are we able to afford anywhere near this much food. Maybe, we could consume this much food in two weeks. But never in one sitting. For the first course, the Capitol puppets bring us a thick carrot soup with a tossed green salad. The salad has different shaped vegetable mixed throughout, with cucumbers and thin slices of red union. There are some red and yellow slices that I don't recognize. It takes a few moments to gather the courage to sample one of the yellow ones, but it turns out to be rather bitter. The red slices have are a bit tangier, and I decide that I like them better. I nearly stuff myself with the warm soup, and I'm shocked when Effie says that there's going to be more. I just ate enough for three people.

For the main course, lamb chops and creamy mashed potatoes are brought out. The lamb is covered in a strange sauce, but the meat is better than anything I've ever tasted in my life. The sauce is really salty, and it seems to make the meat just all the more better. As I gingerly cut a small portion of the lamb with the side of my fork and bring the utensil up to my mouth, Effie Trinket opens her mouth again.

"At least you two have decent manners. The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages." As the words leave her mouth, I very nearly drop my fork. I'm only able to stare into her beady little eyes, and I catch myself wondering what she's thinking. But the truth of it is that she's not – I find it impossible to believe that the toad-like woman possesses conscious thought. "It completely upset my digestion!" Oh, of course. Two starving children from the Seam were finally getting enough to eat before being sent to their deaths and it was about how _her_ digestion was upset. I glance across the table at Katniss, and I'm able to see that she's just as disgusted as I am.

I try to ignore Effie's comment, but Katniss takes it a step further. She very pointedly eats the next course of cheese and fruit with her fingers, making sure to let the juice from the watermelon to dribble down her chin. I have to try _very_ hard not to laugh. I manage to stifle a choking snicker into my napkin, and I earn a disapproving glance from Effie. If I'm getting disapproval, I don't even want to see the look that she's giving Katniss. I'm afraid that if I do, I won't be able to keep myself from laughing. When the chocolate cake is brought out, Katniss takes large fistfuls of the expensive cake and crams it into her mouth. I have to look the other direction to keep from laughing aloud. When I finally regain control of myself and look back to Katniss, she's got frosting smeared all around her chin, lips, and somehow up past her nose. She gives Effie a polite little grin and I have to bite my lip to keep myself contained. Then she wipes her hands on the otherwise spotless tablecloth, smearing chocolate frosting everywhere. I can nearly feel distaste radiating from Effie. She gives a delicate sniff, and carefully dabs a crumb of cake away from her red lips with a napkin. I have to try harder than ever to keep from laughing. This is completely ridiculous. I catch Katniss' eye, and I realize that although she's looking triumphant, she looks a little green. As I realize this, my stomach beings churning with nausea. I've never eaten this much before, and I know that I'm going to regret it. But if I do throw up, I hope it's on Effie.

After our plates are cleared away, Effie takes us into the separate compartment to watch a recap of the reapings. For the first time, I'm going to see just what Katniss and I will be up against. As the seal of the Capitol shines brightly on the screen I realize just how difficult my task is going to be. Keeping Katniss alive requires getting past the Career tributes from 1, 2, and 4. That alone is a near impossible task. They've been training for these Games all of their lives and are for more prepared than either of us will ever be. Besides, there are always some fighters that come from other Districts. The only District that is always helpless in the arena is 12. Haymitch Abernathy has a lot to do with this.

The anthem is played, and the shortened version of the reaping in District 1 is played. A lean, tall, blonde steps forward to take another girl's place, but that's traditional with the Career Districts. A scrawnier boy who looks to be fourteen jumps up to volunteer and he manages to get through the milling crowd of older, more powerful boys. I'm thankful that I'm not facing one of the older ones. But as the clips roll into District 2, I know that I can't afford to underestimate anyone once I'm in the arena. I keep a close eye on the Career tributes, and I try to evaluate what which ones that I need to watch out for. But with only fifteen seconds of air-time per District, I don't' have very much luck. For now, I'm worried about the boys from 2, 4, and 11. And I allow myself to worry about all of the girls. There's no telling what they have tucked up under their sleeves.

After I allow myself to feel sympathetic for the tiny girl from 11, the screen cuts away to the reaping from 12. As I watch Katniss panic over Primrose on screen, I find it hard to believe that this was only a few hours ago. It's only ten now, but that feels like a lifetime away. Eight hours ago, I was merely apprehensive. But now I'm terrified.

"Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior." Effie says this aloofly, as if Haymitch's errors could be corrected with a few tips from herself. I laugh at her foolishness, not at all embarrassed by the glare she tosses my way.

"He was drunk. He's drunk every year." I say this firmly, letting her know that there's nothing that she can do about it. After all, if he isn't willing to go sober for fifteen minutes for his District, there's no way that he'll be doing it for Effie Trinket.

"Every day," Katniss adds in an amused tone, and I can't help but smile. It's good to know that she agrees with me. Effie seems very put out by the fact that we've sided against her, as her next words are incredibly sharp.

"Yes," she hisses, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death." She crosses her chubby arms across her chest and harrumphs in her annoyingly high voice. I consider rebutting her, but I know that what she's saying is true. Because no matter how much I hate Haymitch, he's the one thing that can actually help me keep Katniss alive.

"I miss supper?" The stench of alcohol floods the tiny compartment that we're in, and I hear Haymitch belch. He tries to stumble towards us, but only ends up tripping over his own feet. He vomits up his wine violently, spewing the acrid contents of his stomach all over the expensive carpet. I nearly gag at the intensity of the smell, and I can feel my own dinner beginning to come up.

"So laugh away!" Effie snaps, and quickly stands and runs from the room. It appears that Haymitch's barbarity has upset her delicate digestion. I watch helplessly for a few moments as Haymitch tries to rise from his knees and only ends up slipping back into his own mess. I catch Katniss' eye, and I can tell that she's thinking the same thing that I am. Even if he is an idiot drunk who I hate, he's all that we've got.

I stand cautiously and head over to his left side. Katniss takes his right side, and with an effort, we haul him to his feet. Twice, he nearly slips back to the floor, but somehow, Katniss and I keep him on his feet. Once Haymitch finally has a secure footing, he scrapes the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the vile vomit across his face.

"I tripped?" He slurs, and staggers to the right. I pull him back towards me to keep him from toppling over on Katniss. "Smells bad."

"Let's get you back to your room." I don't even have to pretend to be nice. He's so pathetic that it's hard not to be. "Clean you up a bit." He doesn't say anything else, and now Katniss and I have the task of somehow getting him back to bed. It takes nearly ten minutes, and we have to pause against walls and steady his motions constantly. As we arrive in the darkened room, we're greeted with the reek of another one of Haymitch's lovely surprises. I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

It's a struggle to get him into the bathroom because he immediately heads for his bed. We have to drag him away from the nightstand before he stains the embroidered bedspread beyond repair, but we manage. As we haul the drunk into the bathroom, I notice enviously that he has a bathtub. A bath would have been far nicer than my earlier disaster with the shower. I never want to take another one of those for as long as I live. As I turn the faucet on full blast and begin peeling his shoes off, I realize that I probably won't have to take another shower ever again. I may not live long enough.

After a few seconds of pulling and tugging on one of his socks, it's evident that Katniss doesn't want to be here. She's keeping her distance, and watching me uncomfortably. I don't really blame her. Cleaning vomit off our mentor doesn't sound like the most fantastic thing to do. I might as well save her the trouble.

"It's okay. I can take it from here." I finally manage to pull one of the socks off of Haymitch's foot, and I turn back to look at Katniss. Her expression is hard to read, but I can tell that she's glad that I've offered to take the load off her hands. After all, who wants to wash vomit out of grisly chest hair? I know that I don't. It isn't like Haymitch will be repaying me for this as it is.

"All right." She says firmly, "I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." I don't even have to think about my answer.

"No, I don't want them." She nods appreciatively and then leaves the tiny bathroom. I watch her go, and I nearly wish that she would stay here with me. But it wouldn't make any sense for her to do that. She's never spoken to me before the reaping, and I doubt that she's ever thought of me before that. She probably has no idea how I feel. Perhaps it's better that way.

I turn back to Haymitch, and begin working on his vomit soaked shirt. After several minutes and a few choice words, I am able to peel the disgusting garment off of him, and I discard the sopping wet shirt in the floor of the bathroom. Without much care for his comfort, I take one of the large bottles of shampoo and squirt a large amount of the sweet-smelling gel onto his chest and start scrubbing him down. He mutters something incoherently, and I roll my eyes. He's probably asking for more wine. Soon his chest is done, and I consider just leaving him in his pants. The worst that could happen is that he'd go to sleep in wet clothing. But I take another glance at his face, puffy and red with over-intoxication, and I sigh. It's simply too hard not to pity Haymitch.

I've got to stop letting people walk all over me.

Reminding myself that I'm doing a good thing, I unzip his slacks and pull the fabric off of his legs. He's left in his boxers, and for the moment, I think he'll be okay. I deposit the pants in the floor and continue scrubbing his body down with shampoo, trying to erase the scent of vomit from the bathroom.

"Where'd teh pritty one go?" He slurs, and he feebly brings up his hand to touch my face. Roughly, I push his hand away and keep scrubbing him down. It's not like he'll remember this in the morning.

"Don't call her that." I growl quietly. Those words don't sound right coming from Haymitch, especially when it's Katniss that he's referring to.

"Oho! Yor – Yorh jealous? Yoo tink she's yorh's?" He seems to find own statement hilarious. My mentor bursts into a loud chorus of laughter, and he throws his head back, knocking it painfully against the porcelain tub.

"Shut up." I say darkly, and I can feel a blush creeping up my pale cheeks. Haymitch grins dumbly at me, seeming to forget the fact that he should be in pain. My only consolation is that he will feel that bump in the morning.

"Yoo… Yoo wuub her! Ohooo! I got wubbirds!" He yells this mockingly, and I can only hope that the water is running loudly enough to drown out his shouting.

"Shut up!" I hiss, and I momentarily consider drowning him. Haymitch giggles defiantly, and he opens his mouth to continue.

"You wub KAT-PISS!" My eyes narrow and I stop scrubbing the vomit off of his body. Haymitch gives me an 'I dare you to do something' look, and I know that I need to get him to shut up – and quickly. I glance around the room, hoping to find something that can keep him quiet, and an idea strikes me.

"You see this?" I ask quietly, trying to make my voice sound dangerous. I take the washcloth and wring the suds of soap out of it and then run it under the faucet. The once the cloth has caught all of the water it can hold, I continue. "This could drown you. Unless you _shut your mouth_ it will." Haymitch laughs. I don't actually intend on drowning him, but there's got to be a way to get him to keep quiet.

_ "_An' why shood that scare meh?" He's slurring so thickly it's hard to understand him, but I get the point. I have to think for a moment before I answer, but I think that I've come up with a good enough answer to keep him satisfied.

"Because, if you're dead, that means you can't have any more booze." Haymitch's expression contorts into one of pure rage, and I know that either I've just given the best answer, or the worst answer.

"WAIT UNTIL I TELL KAT-PISS!" He roars, and spit flies at me. I try not to flinch as saliva hits my face. "KAT-PISS! KAAT-PISSS!" He keeps yelling, and eventually throws his head back again. This time, he hits the wall, and he hits it _hard. _Haymitch has succeeded in knocking himself out. I'm pleased that I didn't even have to try to drown him.

I finish washing his scrounge-y body in peace, trying not to let myself be too upset by his words. He won't remember this in the morning. I take the next twenty minutes to haul Haymitch out of the tub and dry him off as best I can. After unsuccessfully rummaging around in his room for bedclothes, I come to the conclusion that he can sleep in his wet underwear. That won't kill him.

It takes me a further ten minutes to lug him from the bathroom to his bed, and I'm sure that he's has terrible carpet burns because of it. I'm unable to stop myself from smirking. I then tug him into his bed by his legs, and I'm careful to make sure that I don't hit his head on the nightstand. I don't want Katniss' life in his hands while he's suffering of some kind of a mental illness because he hit his head. Finally, I'm able to tuck him into bed. By the time I've got the comforter pulled up to his neck, Haymitch is snoring peacefully, and I'm exhausted. I leave his room quietly, and I shut the door behind me noiselessly. Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day. But as I catch myself thinking positively, I remember where this train is taking me. Tomorrow, we arrive at the Capitol. Tomorrow is when I lose myself to the stylists, the media, and the demands of the Treaty of Treason. Tomorrow, I'm no longer Peeta Mellark. I'll just be the boy from 12. And I'll carry that new name until the day I die.

**Okay, this chapter is about three times as long as the last one. Really, most of my chapters are this long, but I really hate super long chapters, because it gets kind of hard to focus after a while. So, let me know if the length is *too* long, and I'll use my magical edit button and fix it up. :) Also, I'd like to say that I'm guilty of borrowing the name Kat-piss. I read it in the fanfic "Wine" by Mockingjay1804, and I really REALLY liked it as a mocking name for her. So, I apologize for plagiarizing, and I hope that if Mockingjay1804 happens to read this that he or she will take it as a compliment. :D**


	6. Chapter 6

I wake up far too early. Pale streams though my window, bathing my personal compartment in an eerie gray light. I lay motionless, enjoying the warmth that the thick, goose-down comforter is providing me with. It's rather chilly in here, and I know that it's going to take a lot to convince me to get out of my bed. My bed at home is not even half this comfortable. It's incredibly pathetic, especially when the fact that I'm on a train is brought into consideration. I'm on the train that's taking me to my death, and the beds are more comfortable than mine is at home. The food is better, and the train even has running hot water. Although I hate the constant swaying and rocking that's produced from the movement, I have to admit that life is better here on the tribute train. I'm even just across the hall from Katniss Everdeen. Although I've never really had the courage to talk to her, and she's never had good reason to speak to me, I can't help but feel satisfied by this fact. For the first time in five years, I'm a little closer to Katniss than I was the day before. And I can't help but let myself hope. I know that the odds are totally against me, but what's the harm in hoping? I'll be dead before the week is out anyways. I might as well take a risk for the first time in my life.

The first time I saw Katniss, we were five. It was the first day of school, and we happened to have the same teacher. Katniss was different – even back then. Usually, the olive-skinned girls from the Seam aren't much to look at. Their faces are hollow and drawn, and you can nearly see the defeat shinning from their grey eyes. But apart from her similar features, Katniss could have been an entirely separate breed. As much as I hate to quote Haymitch, he was right at the reaping. She had something that none of the other girls had: spunk. She was bright, energetic, and you could see that she refused to give up. Even back then. Sure, she was bossy, stubborn, and she moody, but she was different all the same. I was a goner from day one.

My father told me that he lost Katniss' mother to a coal miner. The only reason that my father gave me was that he could sing. Supposedly, when he sang, even the birds stopped to listen. I was skeptical at first. Truthfully, I thought that my father might have been trying to hide something from me, something that I 'would understand when I was older'. And being five, I did not have the greatest attention span. I was curious though. How could someone sing so well that even the birds would stop? I remember how I was struggling with the concept as Katniss' volunteered to sing in front of the rest of the class. And I swear, until this day, that the moment she opened her mouth that all of the birds outside fell silent. Her voice, somehow soft and strong, was like nothing else that I had ever heard before. I got home that day and promptly told my father that I was going to marry Katniss Everdeen.

It's funny. Most childhood crushes fade in a few months, and most boys move on to other girls as soon as they have any indication that there's no hope. But for some odd reason, I can't force myself to let go of her. I've tried several times, simply because I know that it's futile to pretend that I have a chance. It's easy to see that she loves Gale, and I can hardly blame her for choosing him. But I can't let her go. And as thing stand now, I'm sure that she'll die without ever knowing what I'm feeling.

But I think I'm okay with that. As long as she sees me as an ally, if not a friend, I think I can die happy. But even if she doesn't, at least I'll die knowing that I'm doing what has to be done. I know that she'll thank me for it once she's won the Hunger Games. She'll have someone to go home to, thanks to my actions. By breaking my heart, I'm saving two people. For the first time in years, I can think about Gale without feeling the usual pang of jealousy. I know that he'll make her happy, and that's all that truly matters. If I can't have Katniss, the least I can do is make sure that she's happy.

I roll over onto my side awkwardly, and I pull my father's ring out from underneath the blankets. I hold the wedding band up to the pre-dawn light, and the diamond scatters the light like some kind of prism. Rainbow hues are cast on the wall opposite of me, as if it's some kind of sign. Immediately, I wonder if it's some kind of message telling me to keep hope, but I cast the thought away. It's just a pretty light on my wall, and nothing else. Eventually, I lose interest in the rainbow on my wall, and I direct my attention back towards my father's ring. I run my index finger over the smooth surface of the band, and I can't help but wonder how Katniss' mother chose someone over him because of a singing voice. My father isn't very eye pleasing, but he's a good man.

Perhaps Mrs. Everdeen has a taste for whirlwind romances. I consider the fact that this may be what Katniss prefers as well, but I ignore that thought entirely. She's far too sensible for that kind of thing. I've never heard her say otherwise.

Finally, I lose interest in my token entirely, and let the ring drop back to my chest. I glance over to the electric clock on my nightstand, and I note that it's only six-forty. The only clock back home is a large round one that sits in the back of the bakery. I prefer the wound up clocks. For some reason, the digital one seems… Foreign. But then again, everything is foreign here. And it's not like I have to get used to any of this.

I come to conclusion that I should try and get more sleep while I can. I roll over in my bed, and I shut my eyes. I'm just about to drift off, when a loud, hacking, cough interrupts the silence. I growl, and pull my pillow over my head, bending the ends of it around my ears. I still can't block Haymitch out. At the moment, all I want to do is shout at him and tell him to shut up, but I don't want to wake Effie or Katniss. Effie, I'm not too concerned about. But Katniss may very well be moody today, and I really wouldn't blame her. No one in their right mind would want to put up with her when she's cranky though, and I elect to remain silent. I lay awake in my bed, still waiting for Haymitch to shut up.

He finally does, but I can't get back to sleep. I glance over at the shiny clock again, and now it's six-fifty. Back home, I'd be getting up in ten minutes, and setting about my work at the bakery. Today's a Saturday, so I'd be starting with the cakes. My mother doesn't appreciate laziness. If she were here, I would probably be receiving a sound verbal beating. I sigh heavily, and force myself up out of bed. If the Capitol people are here to 'help' me, they might as well make me breakfast.

When I get to the dining compartment, it's completely empty. The table is completely clear of dishes, and I notice that last night's stained tablecloth has been replaced with a fresh white one. I chuckle at the memory of Katniss' frosting smeared face, and allow myself to smile. Showing amusement won't affect Katniss' chances for survival. I walk past the table, and go to the back of the train. I assume that the kitchen is back here, and it only makes sense to ask for food here. I can hear the clatter of cooking through the thin walls. Carefully, I push open the door of the kitchen, and step into a complete frenzy. There must be twenty of the puppets in here, basically running over each other to get breakfast gone. I unintentionally gawk, and try to comprehend that four people have twenty servants just making their food. I know that it takes a lot of work to prepare a meal, but I can't see how this is necessary.

"May I help you?" I jump at the sound of a puppet's voice, and I doubt I'll ever get accustomed to the accents. I look over my shoulder and see a pleasant looking girl smiling at me. Her dark hair is pulled tied in a knot at the base of her neck, and her eyes are a startling shade of green. She blinks, and I am shocked to see how cold her eyes are. They're not just angry; they're entirely devoid of emotion. I wonder if she's been brainwashed. I've heard that the Capitol has choice methods to bring people under their control.

Suddenly, I find myself pitying this young woman. I never thought that I would be sympathetic for someone from the Capitol – but I am anyways. There's no telling what's been done to her. Something had to make her this inhuman, and I don't want to know what. The Hunger Games is enough of a crime to keep me angry for a lifetime. I don't' think I'm up to discovering just one more reason to hate the Capitol. The fact that I'm losing Katniss is plenty enough to keep me going.

"I… Could I get something to eat?" I stammer, and I try not to stare at her eyes. But it's like watching a horrible death: I can't tear my eyes away.

"Of course. How do eggs sound?" She smiles again, but it doesn't touch her eyes. They're blank and bottomless – those eyes belong to someone who knows utter defeat. I have seen eyes like this, but they belong to people of the Seam. These eyes do not belong to a woman who lives in the Capitol or one who does not have to live with the terror of the reapings. They do not belong to a woman who has enough to eat, or one who lives a life of luxury. But her green eyes are full of a haunting pain, even though by all rights they should not be. The people of District 12 are suffering – they are dying as the people of the Capitol live life as one big party! And yet, this woman knows pain. She knows defeat, and she knows total submission.

This Capitol woman knows my terror.

I am only able to nod my head dumbly in answer, and her lips draw into a larger smile. "Wait in the dining room, and I will have them sent out to you." She then walks away from me, and mixes in with the milling crowd of other puppets. But they _aren't_ puppets. They're people. I watch her for a moment longer as I contemplate this. I've spent my whole life believing that all of the people of the Capitol are silly airheads – people like Effie. But… It's not true. I have just been proven wrong by this young woman, and I'm not sure what to think anymore. There are people in the Capitol who aren't as oblivious as I once thought. Just like everywhere else in Panem, there are people in the Capitol who suffer. Even people who live in the Capitol are affected by the absolute tyranny.

Something has to be done about this.

I realize that I've been standing here for an inordinate amount of time with my fists clenched tightly at my sides. The servants must think I'm mentally ill. I sigh noiselessly, and walk out of the kitchen. As I walk into the dinning cart, I notice that Haymitch has dragged himself out of bed. He's sitting in one of the rickety wooden chairs, with his feet propped up on the table. His legs are crossed at the ankle, and his arms are crossed over his chest. His face is red and puffy, but even I can see that he's looking incredibly smug.

"Good morning, Haymitch." I say this coolly, as I haven't quite forgiven him for last night. But since he probably doesn't remember his bathing disaster, I assume that he'll just think I'm anxious about the Games. He doesn't say anything, but he starts smiling cruelly. I can feel my heart being to beat faster, and I'm not even sure why. It's not like he can do anything to me. I swallow, and I pull back a chair to take a seat. That Capitol girl should be done with my eggs soon. As I take my seat, Haymitch clears his throat, and my eyes snap to him. He looks outright gleeful. This makes me even more nervous, and I have a feeling that I should be. Suddenly, I'm more afraid of Haymitch than I ever realized I was.

"It seems that drowning me didn't turn out so well, boy." My heart drops into stomach. I know that my expression has just given away my fear, as Haymitch chuckles softly, dangerously. "So, you _love_ the girl?"

Immediately, I can feel the blood rushing to my face. I clench my jaw, and I know that I've really done it now. The moment he tells Katniss, I truly don't have any hope at all. Every girl loves learning that a guy they never speak to loves them from a grisly old drunk. Haymitch laughs again, and takes another swig of a red drink. It's probably wine, knowing him. I'm not about to stoop low enough to try and lie about it to him. That would only make matters worse for me. "You want me to deny it?"

"Oh, of course not!" He says sarcastically, downing another glass of the red substance. "I want you to write me a sonnet, declaring your undying love for _Kat-piss_." He laughs loudly at his joke, and ends up choking on his wine.

"Don't call her that!" I snap, and now anger colors my cheeks as well.

"What are you? Her knight in shining armor?" Haymitch says this cruelly, as if he means to belittle me. I refuse to let him.

"I wouldn't have to be, if you left her alone." He raises his eyebrows at me, and bothers not to refill another glass of wine while he's studying me.

"Well, well, well! Aren't we feisty?" He looks at me, his bloodshot grey eyes meeting mine. "Too bad she'll end up killing you." He says this in a sing-song voice, as if he _wants_ to upset me. He _wants_ me angry with him.

"And?" I ask with frustration and anger coloring my voice. "What if I _want_ her to kill me, Abernathy? What if I _want_ Katniss to win?"

"Suicidal, are we? I'll have to tell the Capitol to keep an extra-close eye on you. Or are you really that stupid?" Haymitch says this with malice. I wonder what I've done to get him angry. But it really doesn't matter what it is. All I know is that this worked. I've found a button and I'm going to press it for all I'm worth.

"I'm not stupid at all." It takes a great amount of control, but I manage to say this coolly, and I know that it infuriates him. "When you truly love someone, there's no limit to what you're willing to do for them." Now I've made him _really_ angry. I think that his eyes are about to pop out of his head. It's nearly enough to make me laugh. I'm impressed with how I've managed to turn the tables on Haymitch, but I know that it's going to be short-lived. I never seem to have any luck with this sort of thing. But I might as well enjoy it while I can.

Haymitch Abernathy, victor of the fiftieth Hunger Games and a Quarter Quell is only able to stare at me, with his jaw hanging open. I've made him so angry that it nearly makes me giddy. I don't think I've ever had this much adrenaline in my system before. This is even more empowering than arguing with my mother.

"Good morning!" I hear Effie's voice behind me, and I immediately whip around in my chair towards the sound of her voice. She's wearing a blazer and skirt again, except they're in such a bright shade of blue that I can hardly look at it. Her blouse is a very nondescript white though, and I suppose that's better than blindingly bright pink. She smiles at me, showing of her shiny white teeth. That reminds me that she definitely isn't like the puppets in the kitchen. She's the prime example of a spoiled Capitol woman. She waddles over towards the table, and she finally seems to realize that Haymitch and I aren't just having a lovely chat.

"Haymitch, what seem so to be the problem?" Her eyes lock on his empty wine glass. Effie bites her lip, and I can tell that she's trying hard not to smile. She thinks that this is as simple as him being out of spirits. I suppose that she finds this pleasing. I know that if I were not so angry with my mentor that I would find it amusing as well. "Ah…" Apparently, Effie is smarter than I thought she was, because she doesn't say any more before she slides into the seat beside me.

"Oh, nothing's wrong, Effie." Haymitch stares directly at me as he says this, and his eyes are shinning murderously. "Young Peeta here just told me how he plans on wooing Katniss, and I was telling him how _completely_ inappropriate that would be."

**Sorry for the delay, dear readers! I had to take a quick break from Peeta, because he was starting to drive me nuts. The next chapter may be slightly delayed as well, seeing as I have school work and whatnot to get done. Please be patient with me! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

Effie looks straight at me, and I suddenly feel apprehensive. It's one thing that Haymitch knows; he's a drunken fool who no one respects. But Effie, although a bit daft, is well-known in the Capitol. She's an escort for the tributes in the Hunger Games, and no doubt, people enjoy speaking to her about the barbarity of District 12. There's no telling how far Effie Trinket is willing to go for attention. Sappy, unrequited love seems to be the sort of thing that people in the Capitol live for. When they're not enjoying the bloodthirsty games, they'll be mooning over the latest coupling. As they are able to waste time sitting around a television set, I have no doubt that they _love_ this sort of thing. Effie has made it painfully apparent that she does not like being the escort for 12, and that she'd prefer to have a bigger chunk of the limelight.

And if she gets to tell everyone that the boy from 12 is madly and deeply in love with the girl from 12, there's no telling how much popularity she will gain. I've never even heard of the idea of a couple going into the arena – the very idea is absurd. No doubt, that's why Haymitch finds my plight so amusing. At least, he found it amusing last night. At the moment, he looks as if he wants to hit me. I let my eyes drift over to Effie again, and she's still staring dumbly at me. Her hand twitches as it passes over her fork, and I have a feeling that she's already formulating a plan that will skyrocket her to fame. She licks her puffy, full lips, and I can see that she's itching with excitement. How popular the story will be in the Capitol – the love that can never be between the boy and the girl from 12. They're going to go ballistic when I die for her.

And as I watch Effie, I realize that I don't want her telling anyone. It's my own business, and if I want Katniss to know, then I will tell her myself. Preferably, once I've had enough time to gather the necessary courage. I'd also be more comfortable telling her privately, but I doubt I'll ever have privacy again. Not once I'm in the Capitol, and certainly not in the arena. I swallow nervously, and I have a terrible feeling that Effie feels exactly the opposite way that I do. Her beady little eyes tell me all that I need to know: she wants this to be done publicly, and she wants it to be done with a rather large splash. She wants it done in a way that will gain her enough attention to get her bumped up to a different District. I shift slightly in my chair as I watch her process this new information and I don't even dare to hope that she'll keep quiet about it. I'm totally doomed, now that Effie Trinket knows.

"Well, Peeta, is it true?" She says this stiffly, as if she's disapproving. But, there's something else in her voice, something that gives her away. Although her accent leaves her with an incredibly high-pitched voice, I've spent enough time with her to know that the higher edges of her voice towards the end of her sentence is definitely not just her accent. She's excited. Effie Trinket is _hoping_ that I really do feel this way, because she knows that this could very well be the life preserver in her career. My love for Katniss has suddenly become Effie's one way ticket out of the District.

Apparently, not only am I going to be entertainment for all of Panem, I'm also the very thing that's going to get Effie Trinket to a more lavish lifestyle. Not only will I be sacrificing my life for a girl I hardly talk to, I'll be providing a drunk, cowardly, supposed mentor a laugh along the way. Not only will I dying for Katniss Everdeen, I'll be dooming her to a life of publicity. If the fact that I love her leaks out and the District knows that I feel that way, that I'm willing to die for her, there's no way she can marry Gale when she gets home. To the people of 12, that would be like throwing what I've done for her to the dogs. It would make her look heartless, cruel, and childish. No, if Effie Trinket tells the world that I love Katniss, she'll be expected to remain marriage-less and love-less for the rest of her life, in honor of what I'm about to do for her.

There's no way that she'd get Gale. A selfish part of me finds this satisfactory. If I can't have her, then no one will. But as I watch Effie smile impishly at me, the cold satisfaction melts away into anger. If I'm dying so that Katniss can live a happy life, that means she should be able to marry who she chooses – and by no means, should she be expected to hang on to my memory. She hardly knows me! I'm not about to let Effie Trinket ruin everything that I'm working for. But, I've just told Haymitch that I do, in fact, love Katniss. I can't very well lie to Effie about it, or he'll just make matters worse. I grit my teeth, and I keep my eyes locked down on my plate.

"Yeah…" I mumble, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that Effie has relaxed considerably, and she's looking more confident. I'm doomed.

"That's wonderful!" She squeals, and I can nearly hear a sickly sweet smile creep onto her face. "Oh, I can't wait to see how she reacts when you tell her! Of course, it will need to be someplace public, where the cameras can catch her reaction properly – just think of the publicity! People will be going absolutely _mad_ over you two! Think of the sponsors!" She speaks quickly, and her voice grows progressively louder and louder and she becomes more and more excited about it.

Haymitch laughs coldly, and for a moment, I dare to hope that he'll come to my rescue, and that he'll get her to keep quiet. But then I remember that I've threatened to drown him, and that I've made him very, very angry. I won't be having very much luck with him either.

"Really, woman, do honestly think that this story is going to get either of them any more sponsors? It just makes him look weak! No one in their right mind would sponsor a boy saying he's going to die for a stuck up, cold, brutish, and completely manner-less _barbarian._ While it may look sweet to you and your pea-sized brain, it looks foolish and ignorant to me. And it will look that way to any one with enough money to make sure one of them gets out alive." He laughs again, and he fills his glass up again. I look up from my plate to snarl at him as he insults Katniss, and I'm not at all surprised by the self-satisfied look on his face. Smugly, he downs another glass of wine, and then pours another. "I'm not the only reason that 12 never makes it past opening day, Trinket. If you had half a brain, I'm sure that we'd have better chances."

Effie sniffs indignantly as she considers a comeback. Her eyes look as if they're going to pop out of her head, and her chest swells with a deep breath. I can tell that she's holding herself back, but I seriously doubt that it's out of respect for Haymitch. If I was her size, and someone Haymitch's size had just insulted me, I'd keep quiet too. Haymitch chuckles at her silence, and Effie simply glares at him.

"You're wrong, Haymitch." I am taken aback by her self-defense, and apparently, so is Haymitch. He pauses in his drinking endeavors, and his eyes narrow into a dark stare of disapproval. "I am most certainly _not_ the reason that this District never wins. If you weren't so drunk all the time, perhaps we'd be able to seal a sponsor deal every once in a while! No one wants to work with you!" She shouts this shrilly, and it suddenly strikes me that she may dislike Haymitch as much as I do. I bite my lip uncomfortably, and I'm not so worried about my own problems at the moment. Judging by the murderous glance that my mentor is throwing her way, I have a feeling that I may be short an escort by the time we arrive to the Capitol.

"Is that so?" He asks this coldly, his voice is soft and dangerous. He was already angry by the time she arrived here, and I doubt that this exchange between them has helped his fury. He laughs again, only this time, there is no mirth. It sounds like a warning, and I'm not sure if it's directed at me or at Effie. I bet it's meant for both of us – really, anyone who dares to cross his path. He won the Hunger Games somehow, and at the moment, I don't want to find out how. "That may well be, but if you're stupid enough to spread this around, then they _really_ won't have a chance. The girl is difficult enough as it is – if you make the boy look stupid and weak, then they're both doomed. And Effie, I really doubt you want to lose the Hunger Games again." A dangerous glint enters his eyes, and I can see that he's enjoying himself again. Effie seems to notice this as well, as she shrinks away from him, shifting ever-so-slightly in her chair. "One more loss, and the Capitol may decide you're too stupid for the job." He smiles cruelly, and I can see that Effie's completely ruffled by this.

"How is the fact that you're an unmanageable drunk _my_ fault?" She shrieks this, and I know that this has to run deeper than just this argument. After all, she's been dealing with Haymitch for years. This might even be the last straw. "You're stinking filth runs all of the sponsors off, and seeing as you have to seal the deals, it can't possibly be my fault!"

"Oh, but it _is." _I know that this can't possibly be true, and that he's just taunting her now. Unfortunately for Effie, she is a bit daft, and she probably can't see through this the way that I can. The fact that she's angry isn't helping her. "Do you honestly think that anyone _wants_ to deal with you? You're irritating, exceedingly unattractive, and you never shut up. Sweetheart, it isn't just me running off the money." He smiles, flashing his yellowed teeth at her, and Effie's nearly trembling with emotion.

I begin fidgeting uncomfortably, as I'm sure that I'm not supposed to be hearing this. But it doesn't matter – it's not like I'll be alive in a week. I'll take this argument to the grave – and hopefully, my feelings about Katniss will go with it. Just then, the puppets come through with our breakfast. The woman with the green eyes deposits the eggs I asked for on my plate with a gentle _plop_, and I smile up at her. She returns the same hollow smile that I got in the kitchens, and then goes back into the kitchens. I ignore the fried potatoes and ham for the moment, and I quickly begin shoveling the eggs into my mouth. I dare to look up, and I see that Effie has poured herself a cup of black coffee, while Haymitch is still working away at his wine.

"I'm – I'm going to get Katniss." Effie says this stiffly, as if she's still trying to comprehend what Haymitch just said. I don't blame her. I doubt she's ever been insulted like that in her sheltered life. Even if that's what people in the Capitol truly think about her, I doubt that anyone has dared to say it to her. She straightens her bright pink wig with her hand, and then picks up her glass mug.

"You do that, Effie. Try not to eat her, as we wouldn't want to upset young Peeta here." He laughs hoarsely before knocking his glass back again, and Effie looks as if she's about to blow a gasket. She begins muttering darkly, and I catch a new assortment of colorful words. I tuck those away in the back of my mind, and a part of me is sure that they'll come in handy at one point. From the murderous look on her face, I can safely assume that most of them are insults. As she brushes past me, she says a familiar one just loudly enough for me to catch it, and I nearly choke on my eggs. I try not to laugh as Haymitch smiles brightly at her, and she waddles out of the room without further comment.

Haymitch keeps laughing to himself, and I'm not in the mood to try crossing him about Katniss. Hopefully, the fun he just had with Effie has distracted him from my own problems. I glance over at him, and I wonder how many glasses of wine he's had. I continue poking at my eggs, but I'm not hungry anymore. I glance over at the center of the table, and I see that fresh rolls have been laid out. Immediately, I'm struck with homesickness, as rolls like these are often passed through our bakery. Without a second thought, I grab for one of the warm chunks of bread, and stuff it into my mouth. Haymitch glances at me reproachfully, and I nearly choke. The expression looks so odd on his red, puffy face, especially considering how rudely he just treated Effie. I swallow my bread with effort, and grab another roll. Haymitch chuckles darkly, and I can feel a blush creeping up my cheeks. It's not like I honestly care about what he thinks of me. But my face says otherwise.

"Sit down! Sit down!" Haymitch breaks the silence in a rather good natured voice, and as I look up, I see that Katniss has joined us. Red stains my cheeks even more, and I try to distract myself with the roll I've got in my hand. She's wearing the same green shirt from yesterday, and I can't help but notice how the shade sets of her olive skin and her dark hair. In comparison, her eyes are like silver, shining brightly in what seems to be irritation. I struggle to keep from looking at her, and Haymitch seems to be amused by this. However, Katniss doesn't even seem to notice. Instead, she begins piling her plate high with food, and I follow suit. It only makes sense to try and fill up before the Hunger Games. Not that I need to gain weight – not in the way that Katniss does – but eating as much as I can will only help.

I finish off my eggs quickly, and I begin to look around for something to drink. There was a little bit too much pepper in those eggs for my liking, and now I'm thirsty. My eyes glide over the dark coffee Katniss has, and I immediately shoot it down. My father was especially fond of coffee, and I could never understand why. It's very bitter, and it requires cream and sugar for it to taste even remotely good. Tea isn't too bad, but it's really expensive. But there, sitting at the middle of the table, is just what I'm looking for.

There's a large, crystal pitcher full of a rich, dark liquid, and I know instantly that it's hot chocolate. It's steaming slightly with warmth, and I can see the delicate froth on top that is melted whipped cream. My mouth starts to water, and I quickly reach across the table and claim the pitcher as my own. Haymitch hasn't noticed, and for some reason, I'm glad of it. He can have all the wine he wants, but the hot chocolate is _mine. _Greedily, I fill my glass nearly to the rim, and then I take one of the rolls, and dip it in the thick, creamy, chocolate. The familiar taste of bread and chocolate fills my mouth, and I shut my eyes in contentment. It's been so long since I've had hot chocolate, this is nearly like a dream come-true. My father only sells hot chocolate and other sweet beverages during the holiday seasons, and I haven't had hot chocolate since last Christmas. We're only allowed one glass each on Christmas Eve, and I consider it to be one of the best parts of the holidays.

As I finish off the roll, and another, my glass is about half empty. Rather than struggle to dip another roll in and mess up the cuff of my slept-in shirt, I knock back the glass. Warmth floods me, and I feel closer to home than I've felt since leaving. I sigh in contentment as I place the glass back on the table, and I see that Katniss is still working away at her food. Has she ever had hot chocolate before? I ponder this, and I come to the decision that she probably hasn't. At least, not since her father has died. Katniss doesn't seem the type to blow their hard-earned money on an expensive drink that won't do anyone any good. I reach for another cup off the platter, and quickly pour her a glass. I'm thankful that neither she nor Haymitch notice me passing her the cup. It would definitely be awkward if she decided to ask about it, and if Haymitch saw, it would only remind him of what I'm trying to get him to forget. A few minutes after I draw my hand away, she looks at the glass skeptically, with a dark eyebrow arched. I try not to smile.

"They call it hot chocolate," I say quietly, watching her eyes snap up to mine. My breath catches in the back of my throat, and I try not to look obviously infatuated. I can tell that Haymitch is watching me; judging me. I've got to be more careful around her now that he knows. "It's good." An expression of contemplation cross her face, and I can tell that she's not sure whether or not to believe me. For some reason, this stings. It's not as if I'm trying to harm her, and it's not like I could have done something to it. I'm planning on dying for her, and she's acting like I'm trying to kill her. I clear my throat as I turn back to my own meal. I glance up a few moments later to see that she's drained her cup, and her eyes are flickering over to the pitcher beside me. I push it a little towards her so that if she wants it she'll have to reach for it, but she doesn't move. I know this is a stupid way to see if she trusts me or not, and I'm only going to end up getting hurt by the answer that's sure to come, but I can't make myself care. I want to see what she does.

She definitely doesn't trust me.

**First off, I'm so terribly sorry for the delay! I feel awful! I hope I haven't lost any of you, because I totally love you all. :P Secondly, I know this chapter leaves much to be desired, and I PROMISE that in the next chapter, they will finally get off the bloody train. I promise. I'll even make the unbreakable vow! It got cut off because I don't like making chapters much bigger than 3,000 words. So, even though I've kept our hero and heroine on the train, I've hopefully saved your eyes? :) Anyways, thanks for reading and PLEASE review! Reviews make me uberly happy!  
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	8. Chapter 8

Katniss ignores the pitcher pointedly, as if she's sure she can't trust anything that comes from me. I focus on keeping my expression indifferent as I turn back to my plate, and I even throw in an exaggerated shrug for Haymitch. I'm not supposed to care if she doesn't trust me or not, nor am I supposed to care if she isn't kind to me. I'm supposed to be prepared to murder her, because that's what expected. Just like every other tribute, my job is to kill everyone I can. My one job, my _only_ job is to supply the Capitol with top-notch entertainment. Sure, dying for another tribute would be a guaranteed way to make the pea-brains happy with the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, but if I'd be ruining the life I'm fighting for if the fact I love her was let out. No, I have to appear as if I don't care, and I have to die for her discreetly. I have no other choice. Appearing upset over the fact she won't take a pitcher of hot chocolate from me certainly won't do me any good.

I continue stuffing myself with food, not really caring about my manners. Effie's comment about barbarism yesterday has stuck with me, and a surreptitious glance over at Katniss proves she feels the same way. Although, she's not stuffing chocolate frosting in her mouth, her manners are not nearly as refined as they were yesterday. I have a few pieces of buttered toast, and even though it's good, it's really dry. I glance around at the options I have for drinking, and only the pitcher of hot chocolate draws my attention. It's still sitting halfway between Katniss and me, and I'm a little reluctant to take it from her. But, she hadn't used it before now, and I figure that it she changes her mind she'll either ask for it or grab it for herself. As soon as I've got the pitcher dragged back to me, I pour myself another glass and knock it back. The warm chocolate floods my taste buds with happiness, and I suddenly feel far more at ease. I pour another glass and use it to soak my rolls in, and continue nibbling at the bread until Katniss breaks the silence.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," She says this firmly while locking her eyes on Haymitch and the side of his mouth twitches. She doesn't know how angry he is. Oops.

"Here's some advice. Stay alive," Immediately, he bursts out laughing again, as if he thinks what she's said is funny. But I don't miss the dangerous glint in his eyes. I take this as a challenge. He expects us to survive on our own, does he? Haymitch plans on leaving us to our own devices? Alright, fine with me. At least I would have thought that watch out for Katniss, as they're both from the Seam, but I guess I was wrong. I'd understand it if he didn't watch out for me, but she's a different story. I can't keep her alive on my own.

"That's very funny." I say slowly, trying to hide the anger that's suddenly resurfaced in me. Very, very slowly, I begin to snake my arm towards him while he's throwing back another glass. "Only not to us." As soon as the words leave my mouth, I take a hold of the wine glass, rip it from his hand, and throw it at the paneled wall. The delicate glass shatters on contact, and the dark wine begins dripping down the wall and staining the carpet. My eyes follow the mess I've created for just a second too long, and by the time I glance back at Haymitch there's no way I can dodge the punch he's throwing. His eyes are like silver fire, and I'm sure there's nothing understated in the snarl his entire face is curled into. At the last instant, I loosen my jaw, as I know if I keep it tense it could be shattered. His fist makes contact with my face with such a force that I'm knocked from my chair, and as I hit the ground I feel the air being knocked from my lungs. The chair I've been sitting in is tipped over on top of me, and my head collides painfully with the leg of Katniss' chair. My eyes water and I try not to gasp in pain. There's a clamor up at the table, and there's a _thud_ that sounds suspiciously like a knife sticking into wood.

"Well, what's this? Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?" Sarcasm is laced through his voice, and I can nearly see the sneer his face is surely twisted into. I take a deep breath and pull myself up using the table. As I stand, I make sure to glare at him, and I take notice of the knife sticking out between his forefinger and his thumb. I never realized how good of an aim Katniss has. Sometimes, I've eaten the food that she gets from the forest, and I know that it takes a good aim to bring down an animal, but I never thought twice about it. Now, she seems all the more dangerous. I'm getting the feeling that she may not need my protection.

I keep the steely glare on my face, as I feel like I deserve to be angry with Haymitch, and I take one of the extra glasses and fill it up with ice from the fruit tray. Just as I'm about to press it to the mark on my face that's sure to be a bruise, Haymitch firmly grabs my wrist and pulls the glass away. I consider spitting at him.

"No. Let the bruise show," he says, "The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

"That's against the rules," I say rudely. I've decided that his advice isn't worth it. I'm not going to do anything he says unless it's going to have a negative effect on Katniss.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better." I nearly roll my eyes as he corrects me, but I realize that he's right. Maybe he does know a bit about getting through the Hunger Games. Now, he turns his attention to Katniss, and I force myself to look in the other direction. Making sure I don't give him anything to holler about is going to be harder than I thought. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?" I try to ignore her as I pick up my chair and set it right, but out of the corner of my eye I see her throw the steak knife at the wall. With a resounding _thud_ the blade sticks in the seam of two panels, and I feel a burst of pride. Katniss really _is_a fighter. It seems that Haymitch is pleased as well. Just as I sit back in my chair, he's prodding me out of it.

"Stand over here," he commands. "Both of you." Katniss and I move over towards the side of the compartment, and Haymitch begins circling us. I feel like a piece of meat on the slab. He jabs, prods, pinches, holds my head in his hands, and tugs at my wrists. After a solid five minutes of examining both of us, he stops in front of us.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get a hold of you you'll be attractive enough." Yes, once the stylists alter my physical appearance, I will be attractive enough. Thanks, Haymitch. "Alright, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you. But you have to do _exactly_ what I say." He smirks at us, and I know that this is our only option. If we want sponsors, and if I want her to survive, we listen to the drunk.

"Fine," I snap resentfully, and I continue to glare at him. He seems to find this amusing, but I'm past caring.

"So help us," Katniss launches into question, already taking advantage of his agreement, "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone –"

"One thing at a time." He says firmly, "In a few minutes, we'll be pulling up into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But-" Katniss starts, but he cuts her off.

"No buts. Don't resist." Then, he saunters towards the table, grabs his bottle, and leaves the compartment. As the door swings behind him, we are suddenly plunged into darkness. The lights in the dining car are dim in comparison to the sunlight that was here only a few moments ago, and everything looks yellowish. Beside me, I can feel Katniss tense, and I hear her take a deep breath. I glance over at the now pitch black window, and I realize that we're in the belly of a mountain. The Capitol was nestled in a place once called the Rockies, and I assume that these are the Rockies. We're in the dark for nearly a full five minutes, the train still moving at breakneck speed, and the sharp turns we take are slightly concerning. I know that we're on a track, but the thought of crashing into solid rock and being trapped here forever is a frightening one. I know that I'm dying in the arena, but I don't want to die just yet. Not until I can guarantee Katniss a victory.

Suddenly, we're out of the tunnel, and the sunlight is nearly blinding. The train slows considerably, and before I can stop myself, I'm running to the window like a little kid. I'm not surprised by the fact that Katniss does the same thing. We've only ever seen the Capitol on television. The camera can't do it justice. The tall buildings are shimmering, the glass somehow iridescent, casting rainbows everywhere. The colors are so bright they're nearly blinding – I'm reminded of Effie's clothing by many of them. I don't think the Capitol knows the meaning of pastel. Everything, absolutely everything, seems to be in a shade of neon. Some of the colors are so bright it nearly makes me feel sick. It's as if my eyes are rejecting the fact that anything could contain that much color.

The high-speed train rumbles around the entire city, as if the Capitol is showing off its superiority to wherever the tributes came from. Honestly, I can't make myself care about that. The city has an almost magical quality, and I can't tear my eyes away. It's like a place from a storybook, like a fantasy world. Here, life is better. People never miss a meal, enjoy parties, and they never face oppression. They can do what they want, and no one tells them otherwise. As we pull in closer and closer to the inner part of the city, the citizens of the Capitol begin recognizing the train for what it is: they know that they're entertainment is aboard. Immediately, Katniss pulls away from the window as if she's been burned, and I consider doing the same thing. The people begin waving like mad, and I suddenly see an advantage to staying. I begin waving like mad, and grinning like an idiot and the surgically altered people seem to get a kick out of that. If I can get them to like me, maybe I can get them to sponsor me. Considering how pissed off I've made Haymitch, I have a feeling that he won't let anything through to me. Everything I get will go to Katniss.

After a few minute of behaving like a good tribute, I feel the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Katniss is staring at me. I keep waving until we pull into the station, and then turn back to face her. She's looking at me critically. I shrug noncommittally, and then smile at her.

"Who knows?" I ask lightly, "One of them may be rich." Then, I see something in her expression that I don't like. There's a sense of finality to the sharp quality of her glare, and I know that I've just lost what little trust she had in me.

I have the terrible feeling that she's now plotting the best way to kill me.

The train comes to a full stop, and I stare at the door apprehensively. Camera crews are there, and the hum of excitement is nearly unbearable. I look over at Katniss, as if she has a clue about what we're supposed to be doing, and the stare I get back is blank. Soulless, even. I swallow nervously, and tug the cuff of my sleeve straight. I can see the reflection of my face in the window, and I'm slightly horrified by the beginnings of a bruise on my jaw. I'm hoping that it won't show fully through until we reach the training center, because I don't want Katniss getting blamed for it. It wouldn't hurt her reputation, but if someone has to be punished for it, I definitely don't want her to take the fall for it. I glance over at the door Haymitch exited from, and I consider going to get him. He'd know what to do: Haymitch has been the mentor for District 12 for nearly twenty five years now. But I decide that I don't want Haymitch, because he's probably still livid with me.

I keep my eyes locked on the cameras, and the chattering congregation of freaks outside our train, and I try to smile for them. _Do it for the sponsors. _I tell myself, and I know that if I can impress even one person with money that Katniss will have a better shot at getting out of there alive. Haymitch wasn't exaggerating when he said that she was unpleasant. Just because a lot of the boys in the District happen to like her doesn't mean that the sponsors will. Katniss is full of fire, and she's extremely rebellious. Something tells me that the order-loving, chaos-hating Capitol freaks won't take to her. She's going to take a _lot_ of cleaning up for anyone other than me to find her charming.

Suddenly, Effie bursts though the door, her eyes wide and her little mouth open in a large gape. "We're late, we're late!" She shrieks, waddling over towards Katniss. She takes her by the shoulder and then takes a hold of my hand. "Come on! Come on! We're behind schedule!" Without complaint, I let her drag me off the train, and as we step over the threshold of the platform, we're flooded by the press. Effie Trinket, although small, is able to beat them off. She places herself in front of Katniss and me, and shoves her way through the crowd. All the while, she's screaming things like "Move please! We need to get to the Remake Center! Out of our way! Tributes coming through! _Get out of my way!_" Her voice acquires a higher pitch with every shrieked command, and before too long, I'm smirking in amusement. If she weren't leading me to my death, I'd be laughing out loud. Finally, after nearly ten minutes, we're able to press through the waves of very determined press, and Effie leads us to a shiny black car parked beside the sidewalk. By the looks of it, this one is even nicer than the one we were in back in 12. Quickly, she shoves me into the car, and I quickly scoot over for Katniss. Effie, still looking aggravated from the cameras, leans down and squeals encouragement at us. "You'll look _marvelous_ once your prep team is done with you! Don't look so surly, Katniss. They'll be more helpful if you're pleasant!" She clutches her neon pink wig, smiles impishly, and then shuts the door. This time, the windows haven't been blacked out, and it's fairly bright in the car.

Katniss says nothing for the entirety of the ride. I'm not sure what I could say, so I'm silent as well. I keep my gaze out of my window, enjoying the beauty of the Capitol. Although I hate to admit it, it is really nice here. The architecture is superb, and the colors are even more blinding up close. I'm nearly sad when the car takes a ramp downwards, driving down into some sort of a parking garage. It's dark down here, with only dim lights on the ceiling providing illumination. The driver seems to know where he's going though, and within a few minutes, he's parked in front of a door with a huge '12' painted on it. A few feet away, there's another door that has an '11' painted on it. Further down, I'm able to make out a door with a '10' on it, but I can't make out any of the other Districts after that. He gets out, opens Katniss' door, and she clambers out of it. Instead of waiting for him to open my door, I simply follow her, and he slams the door behind us. With a gesture, he leads us to the door, and it slides horizontally open when he presses a button on the wall. I say nothing as he practically pushes us through it, and as the door slides behind us, I see him crawling back into his car.

The hallway we're in is entirely white. The walls, the tiled floor, and the unmarked doorways. It's nearly dizzying. We're greeted by two people dressed in white. They smile hollowly at us, and I smile weakly back. One – I think it's a woman, but I can't be sure with the style its hair is in – starts walking in front of us, and the other gets behind us as if to prod us along. Katniss and I walk without protesting, going wherever we're being led. At the end of the hallway, they lead us into an elevator, and unlike the corridor, the interior is entirely black. The one I think is a woman presses a button, and we go up. And up, and up, and up. There's a little meter on the side of the wall, and according to the little number, we're on the sixty-third floor before we finally stop. Then, the one that is probably female grabs Katniss' hand, and pulls her out into a corridor that is identical to the one that we just left. Katniss leaves without a glance backwards, although I stare worriedly after her. The other puppet silently presses a button, and we rise up yet another floor. After we arrive on the sixty-fourth floor, he proceeds to grab my hand and drag me out. This corridor is white too, and it's kind of depressing. There's no individuality to this building, and as soon as I'm placed in the hands of my prep team, I won't be individual either. I'll be the boy from 12, who everyone expects to die on opening day.

**Yay, we're off the train! Thanks to anyone who has favorited, reviewed, or added my story to their alerts. You make my day. :D So, review, and don't be afraid to let me know how I did! If this seriously sucks, don't spare my feelings. Seriously, let me know.  
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	9. Chapter 9

At the end of the hallway, there's another door with a little sign laminated sign on it that reads: "District Twelve, Male Tribute Prep Room" It takes a few moments for me to remember that the sign is referring to me. I'm ushered through it, and I'm not really surprised by the interior. My prep room seems to have been bleached. The island counter, multiple sinks, chairs, and even the little cuticle that holds a shower is a dazzling, pearly, white. I wouldn't be surprised if this room had undergone a very thorough scrubbing before I arrived. The assumedly male puppet leaves me alone in the room, and I wander over to one of the white leather chairs. I take a seat, and kick my legs out. Despite the fact I'm about to be altered irrevocably, I'm feeling kind of bored. The chair starts swiveling around, and I find this enjoyable. I've never sat in a spinning chair before. After a few minutes of feebly twisting around, I wheel the chair over towards the island, and using my arms to push off the countertop I whip around in a tight circle. By the time I hear someone clearing their throat, in an irritated way, I'm dizzy and feeling a little nauseated.

I quickly put my arms out to stop myself, and when the chair comes to such an abrupt halt, I'm nearly thrown from it. I stare at the counter as I wait for the world to stop spinning so badly, and I can hear approaching footsteps over the blood roaring in my ears.

"Whoa," I mutter, and I swallow hard. I hear someone laughing at me, and I look over to my left to see three very odd people. The woman has bright orange hair, and her face is covered in shinning gold tattoos arranged in swirling patterns. She's lanky, but she doesn't seem to be surgically altered. The two men are an entirely different story. The taller of the two has most definitely gone under the knife on multiple occasions. His face – if it can be called that anymore – now looks grotesquely feline. He has tattoos of whiskers, and even orange fur patters. White surrounds his eyes, and then black stripes follow his jawline. He smiles at me, revealing teeth that have been sharpened to reveal fangs. His hair has been dyed a shade of red, and the curls that hang down to his shoulders remind me of blood. The shorter man has chosen a less obvious route, but it's still painfully evident that he has chosen surgery. For whatever reason, he must have thought that a flattened nose and slanted eyes were attractive. He smiles at me too, and I can't decide if cat man or squinty eyed is more frightening.

I think they're my prep team.

"You must be the boy from 12!" Exclaims the woman, and she stalks over to me and grasps my hand in a tight handshake. _Isn't that obvious? _I asked myself, but still forcing myself to smile at her. Haymitch told me to cooperate.

"Yep," I say warmly, "That's me." The two men then come over, and I shake their hands as well.

"You must be Peter! Wait – no. Was it Penta?" The woman looks at me, her orange eyes wide with something that must have been an apology.

"Peeta." I correct her kindly, sticking to my promise, and she seems to be glad that I'm not upset at her.

"Peeta!" She squeals, "That was it! Well, I was close, wasn't I?" The two men nod vigorously, and I'm a little shocked to realize that cat man's curls are gelled stiff. But to be honest, I'm sure that more surprises are ahead.

"Well, I'm Mercedes, and this is Lileium," She gestures to cat man, and he bows extravagantly, "And this is Artemis." Squinty eyed waves at me enthusiastically and he smiles again. I force myself to smile back at him, trying to ignore his face. "If you wouldn't mind standing up, we'll take a look at you and see how much damage we can do." All three of them burst into a fit of giggles, and I am suddenly very worried for my welfare.

Three hours later, I can safely say that I've never been this clean in my life. Every particle of dirt has been scrubbed away with a harsh exfoliating grit, and I feel like every inch of my skin is raw. Every last hair has been waxed away from my body, and I feel bare and vulnerable. My hair has been scrubbed, and after at least fifty different kinds of expensive products, it's softer and shinier than it's ever been. It looks blonder too, and I think the prep team might have dyed it. Mercedes is absolutely beaming at me, and she looks awfully happy with her work. In comparison Lileium and Artemis look bored.

"There!" she says with satisfaction as she plucks the last out-of-place hair from my eyebrow. I try not to wince, but I'm not sure how it works. "You're perfect now! Get over here where we can take a good look at you." As she says this, Mercedes grabs both of my hands and forcefully yanks me from my chair. She practically drags me into the middle of the room, and I try to keep from grimacing at her. It's been a very long day, and I'm not sure how much longer I can stand the three of them. Between Mercedes and Lileium, I'm sure I've heard more about the latest fashions and ideals of the Capitol in the past hour than I have in my life. Artemis is disturbingly silent, and he only speaks when pressed into it by Mercedes. I swear she had to ask him nearly five times for his opinion on my hair before he voiced it, and even then, he only said two words.

"You're fantastic!" Purrs Lileium. I smile in thanks, and I get a toothy, fang-filled smile back. "Just one more thing…" He takes a bottle off of the counter, turns it upside down and squeezes it. A generous amount of red gel plops into his palm. He then rubs the shiny gel between his fingers, and then runs it through my hair. I consider protesting, because I definitely don't want hair like his, but I don't really have a choice. If I didn't protest the three of them stripping me down and not allowing me to have any clothes for the past two hours, I can certainly handle a little hair gel. Strangely enough, I'm not self-conscious in the least. They're too freakish for me to consider them to be human. They remind me more of a trio of colorful birds that have been trained to clean people up. And really, this whole transformation thing hasn't been all that bad. I expected to come out being an entirely different person, but I'm not all that different. Besides missing all the hair on my body, and being a thousand times cleaner than ever before, I'm still Peeta Mellark. I'm the boy from 12 too, but I still look enough like me to be me.

Artemis comes out of nowhere, and drapes a silk robe over my shoulders. It takes a lot of self-control to not rip it out of his hands and put it on myself, but I manage. Between him and Lileium it takes a good five minutes to get the sash tied around my waist, and I'm ready to hit one of them. After spending most of my morning with my new pet birds, I'm ready to see my stylist and get this over with. At this point, I'd rather be tossed into the arena wearing nothing but this robe than have to stay with them another minute. I smile grimly at the Mercedes, and she's smiling widely at me. "Thanks," I mutter, and Artemis grins at me.

"Let's take a good look at him!" Says Lileium with a smile, and he bustles over towards Mercedes with Artemis, and the three of them look at me like I'm the newest shade of lipstick on sale at an expensive store.

"He looks human now!" Says Mercedes, and the three of them burst into a fit of giggles. "What do you think, Lile?"

"He looks absolutely charming! Almost as good as the boy we had two years ago! Don't you remember him?" That's news. I'm almost attractive enough to be compared to a tribute that came through a few years ago. Good to know that I provided the three of them with entertainment.

"Oh, yes! He was so adorable! Too bad he was killed. I was so sad that I nearly forgot about the cocktail party I was throwing that evening." She truly does look sad as she says this, but I have trouble feeling sympathetic. Artemis nods in agreement, and 'Lile' looks slightly depressed as well. It seems that the people of the Capitol are capable of sadness, even if it is a little misdirected. Maybe these three will be sad when I die. I know that no one else will.

"It was a good party, though." Says Lileium sympathetically, and he pats her on the shoulder. I'm not really sure what to say after this. What can I say? They've just made it clear that a dinner party takes precedence over a dead tribute. Suddenly, I wonder if these three have ever missed a meal in their lifetime. I really doubt it.

"Well, let's see…" says Mercedes, breaking the silence, "Hmm… I think we're ready to call Portia!"

"Definitely!" Agrees cat man, "Penta is totally ready to see her." I blink as he winks at me, and I'm slightly offended by the fact he hasn't bothered to learn my name. But it's not like I'll be alive in a week, and I guess that he doesn't have much reason to know any more about me other than I'm the boy from 12, and that he's in charge of making me look human.

"Thank you," I say warmly, trying to sound sincere, "I really appreciate your hard work." Underneath my smile, I'm about to bite my tongue in half.

"It was no trouble at all!" Lileium throws up his hands in a wide gesture, and his fangs look particularly sharp as he smiles.

"You're a real sweetheart, Penta!" Says Mercedes, and I try not to laugh as she compliments me. "You were so easy to work with - it was more fun than anything else. "Now, let's go get Portia, and we'll see what she says about you. I'm sure you'll look absolutely wonderful this evening."

After that, the three of them rush from the room like a gaggle of puppies, all rushing to get out of the door before each other, and I sigh in relief. They're finally _gone. _I run my hand through my hair, and I wince as it comes in contact with spikey, dried, curls. Lovely. I can only hope that Lileium hasn't turned it red like his hair, but seeing as the gel was red, I really don't have much hope in that thought. But, if horrible hair is going to be the worst of what I'm facing this evening, I'll be entirely happy. I've never heard of Portia before, and because most stylists are the same each year, that will mean that she's new. Because the new ones are usually forced to work for District 12, which is the most unpopular District in all of the Games, she'll probably be resentful, and she'll take out her anger on me. For all I know, I could be going to the Opening Ceremonies naked and covered in coal dust, or in a skimpy coal miner's outfit. Those are the usual costumes that our tributes are forced into, and we're pretty much a guaranteed joke. But I suppose that comes with living in the coal mining District.

Then, the door of my prep room slides open, and my stylist comes in. I'm not lying when I say that I'm surprised by Portia. Although she has not had any surgical alteration that I can see, she's absolutely stunning. I've been in love with Katniss nearly all my life, and even though I think she's incredibly pretty, she can't hold a candle to Portia. My stylist is unworldly, even. Long, honey-blonde hair falls in soft waves just past her shoulders, her eyes are a piercing grey-blue, and they remind me of dawn. Her high cheekbones have been accentuated with a dab of makeup, and when she smiles, straight, pearly teeth are revealed. She's wearing a simple black skirt, and a white blouse, which is surprising to me. For being that pretty, she's not really following the rules of fashion in the Capitol. But I think it's better that way. I smile back at her, and I suddenly wish that I was wearing more than this simple robe. Because, unlike my trio of friendly and invasive birds, she's entirely human.

"Penta?" She asks warmly, and her voice, although soft, seems to fill the entire room. There are traces of the Capitol accent, but it's not nearly as severe as Effie or Mercedes and Lileium. A chill runs up my spine, and blood rushes to my face. _Oh great_. This is splendid.

"I – no," I stammer awkwardly, "I'm Peeta."

"Ah. Mercedes told me she was unsure of your name, but I assumed since you didn't correct her that you were, indeed, Penta. Forgive me, Peeta." Portia walks over to me, and grips my hand in a tight handshake. "I'm Portia, and I'll be your stylist for the Games. Hopefully, I'll also be your stylist for your Victory Tour after the Games have finished." She smiles sincerely at me, and I can tell she genuinely means this. I instantly decide that I like her, and not just because she has a pretty face.

"Uuh… Thanks." I'm not really sure what else to say. It's not like she'll care about my predicament with Katniss, and I'm not sure that I really want to bother her with it. Even though there's no way I'm winning, her compliment is somehow encouraging. For once, someone believes in me – and Portia doesn't even know me.

"If you'll come with me, we can discuss your costume for the Opening Ceremonies." As she says this, Portia glides away, and in a bit of a daze, I follow her. As she reaches the back wall, she pushes a button on a panel that I hadn't noticed earlier, and a hidden door slides horizontally open. She lazily ushers me through it, and we come into a little sitting room. Three of the walls are the same sterile white, but the fourth is completely glass. A fantastic view of the Capitol is revealed, and sixty-four floors beneath us, I can see the well-fed, surgically altered, fun and blood-loving citizens bustling around like frenzied ants.

There are two, squishy looking couches placed across from each other, and an ornate glass table sits in the middle. If I'm not mistaken, it's gold-plated. Hmm… People are starving in 12 while the people of the Capitol are literally eating off of gold. There's something very wrong with that picture, but it's not like anything can be done about it. The fact that people here are eating off of gold won't be changed any more than the fact that we have to live with the Hunger Games will. In fact, I'll literally die before anyone stands up to this tyranny, and no doubt, lots of other tributes will too. As far as the Capitol is concerned, the Hunger Games will last forever. I'm afraid that they're right.

Portia brushes past me, and takes a seat in one of the velvety looking couches and gestures for me to do the same. I plop myself into the squishy cushions, but I keep my eyes on Portia. No doubt, she's about to tell me that I'll be going in a skimpy orange suit. Or even worse, naked and covered on coal dust. The costumes for District 12 seem to alternate between those two. It's too bad no one working for 12 is original, and it's a big part of the reason why we never get sponsors. The upper career Districts, like 1 or 2 always have beautiful costumes, and they're always the favorites. District 4 is never too shabby either.

"Alright, we have a lot to cover in only a little time. I'll get some food –" as she says this, she presses a little red button on the tabletop, and the table splits and a platter of food is lifted up, as if it's appeared out of thin air. It's like magic. At home, we struggle to get one good meal a day, much less three, and here, you can press a button and get all the food you could ever want. You don't struggle to earn enough money for the things you need: here, you spend your money on surgeries to change your appearance, and on the latest fashion. Your only concern in the Capitol is making sure that you're a member of the 'in' crowd, and that you have suitable clothing for the next party. You get to sit back and enjoy the Hunger Games, and pick the tribute you think is going to win and buy them things in the arena to make sure they make it out alive. And then, you get to fawn over the victors of previous Hunger Games, and make sure that they're showing up at the next party you're throwing.

After a few seconds of staring at the plate of rice and chicken, I realize that Portia is staring at me. I look up and meet her glance, and I see – is that _sympathy_ shinning in her eyes? "It isn't right," She murmurs, "Believe me, I know." Incredulously, I work my mouth, trying to find something to say. Even if I knew what would be appropriate here, I wouldn't say it. I wouldn't doubt it if we were on camera, and I don't want her getting into trouble for my sake. At the moment, she could be referring to anything. But, if I press too hard, and she lets slip she's unhappy with the Capitol, she could be in serious trouble. Portia has just become my favorite citizen of the Capitol.

I stare blankly at her for a moment, and then turn to my lunch. Unlike Effie, Portia hasn't commented on the barbarity of my District, so I'm more than happy to use my manners. I spread the cloth napkin across my lap, and I take small bites of the chicken doused in some sort of sweet sauce. It's really good, tingly, almost. I wonder what's in the sauce.

"Anyways, Peeta, back to the costumes for this evening. My partner Cinna – he's the stylist for the girl from your District – had an intriguing idea a few months back. His thought was to dress the both of you in complimentary costumes, and I liked it. Usually, each tribute is dressed in something unique that reflects the flavor of their District. But this year, we want District 12 to stand out: it's our job to make you two memorable. And what's the best way to make sure that people remember you?" She flashes a smile at me while I stop the fork just shy of my mouth. I'm not really sure if I like where this is going.

"You've got to be different. You've got to be a novelty. We want the crowd to go _wild_ over you two. And Cinna being as brilliant as he is came up with the design for both of your costumes. I'd take credit it for it, but I'm sure that his prep team would maul me." I look at her incredulously. Why would anyone want to maul her? She laughs lightly, and I realize that it was a joke. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but Portia just keeps smiling.

"I'm sure you're wondering what he came up with, but I'm thinking about keeping it a surprise. After all, it's going to be spectacular. Do you like surprises, Peeta?"

"Surprises?" I repeat hollowly, and I'm not really sure what to think of Portia's strategy. Portia nods and her grin gets wider.

"How do you feel about fire, Peeta?" Immediately, I'm struck with memories of getting burned in the bakery, and I can only think about how badly burns hurt. My father has scars all over his arms from working years in the bakery, and I'm starting to earn a collection of my own 'battle scars' as he calls them. Truthfully, the only battle I've fought is rescuing burning bread from the oven, but the tiny, puckered scars on my hands weren't easy to earn.

"I – I worked the bakery back home," Portia arches her eyebrow in surprise, and she seems genuinely interested. "I know that fire burns," I say dryly, "And that burns are painful." She softly laughs at me, and takes a hold of my left hand. Her grip is warm and soft, and it feels nearly like a motherly gesture. This is something that my mother should have done; something that Mrs. Everdeen could have done if she had not run off with Katniss' father.

"We'll see how you feel about fire after you see your costume, alright? But before we do _anything_, let's get that horrible gel out of your hair. Lileium has always been fond of crispy hair." I grin in agreement, and as I put my fork back on my plate, the table opens up and swallows up our lunch. Portia stands, still holding my hand, and take me back into the prep room. She plops me down one of the white leather chairs, and wheels me over to the sinks. I lean back, and with gentle hands, she washes the gel out of my hair. After she's done, she towel dries it, and all the while, she's smiling. I really do like Portia. I hope that Katniss got a good stylist too.

"Why did you pick District 12, Portia?" I ask this as she's combing through my semi-dried hair, and her expression suddenly becomes thoughtful.

"I didn't, really. It was Cinna that chose the District. We've been through a lot together, and he's my best friend. Once we had been approved by the Capitol to be stylists for the Hunger Games, Cinna automatically said that he wanted to work with the tributes from District 12. I wanted to work with him, and I said I wanted to be a stylist for 12 too. Thankfully, we were both approved, and after months of preparation, we plan on making a splash this evening-" She pauses here, biting her lip in concentration as she parts my hair. I watch her curiously, keeping my eyes locked on face. "And," She continues, "I'm sure that we will."

"Oh," I say quietly, and I wonder if there's something between them. There was depth in the way that she said that they were friends, and when she says his name, there's a familiar gleam in her eyes. It's the very same one I see in Katniss' eyes when she looks at Gale. It's the same fire that I see in Gale's face when he looks at Katniss. It's the same, soft, powerful, wild emotion that I feel about Katniss. But I'm not one to pry in people's personal business.

"There!" Portia says enthusiastically, "You're back to your normal blonde. If you don't mind my saying so, it's a lovely color. It reminds me of sunlight. It'll go nicely with flames." I swallow nervously, and she grins cheekily. "Once you see it, you won't be nearly as concerned."

**I love Portia. :) So, let me know what you guys think! :D I love everybody who reviews, and I would thank each of you personally, but for some reason, the little link that lets me respond to your reviews has been broken. . So, I'll just thank you here. Canadian-Girl14, Roj, Damarquis Angel, RiversOfVenice, and Jbieberluver22, you guys are all amazing. I'll totally bake you all cookies. Chocolate Chip, or Sugar Cookies? ;)  
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	10. Chapter 10

In Portia's company, the next hours go by astonishingly quickly. By the time Portia starts dabbing the last bit of makeup on my face evening has arrived at the Capitol. The Opening Ceremonies are taking place in a quarter of an hour. Because she's so committed to secrecy, she's forced me to keep my eyes shut for the past hour or so. But she keeps talking to me, so it's not like I've been bored. But I am extremely curious. As far as I can tell, I'm wearing some sort of a unitard, and I'm covered from foot to neck in stretchy fabric.

"Almost done, Peeta. Just be patient." As she says this, I can feel a soft powder brush gently moving across my face, and I don't even consider being afraid of grotesquely over-done facial colors. In just a few hours, Portia has gained my trust entirely. I know that she wouldn't do anything like that to me. Haymitch would call me insane for putting so much trust in a Capitol woman, but I really don't care. Portia hasn't given me a reason to _dislike_ her, so I trust her. End of story.

"No problem," I say, keeping my eyes shut. I know that it won't really make a difference if I see my costume or not, but Portia wants it to be a surprise. It won't hurt me to do something that she wants, seeing as she's been entirely pleasant so far.

"Okay, I need you to keep trusting me –" I pretend to try opening my eyes just to freak her out, and immediately Portia starts squawking at me. "_Keep your eyes shut!_" I laugh under my breath, and taking advantage of my blindness, Portia flicks my forehead.

"Ow!" I say sarcastically, and she pops me on the back of the head. I ruefully rub the place that she hit, and I try to glare at her with my eyes shut. I'm sure that it looks amusing, because I can hear her laughing. I stick out my tongue at her.

"Behave, Peeta!" She says playfully, and then takes a hold of both of my arms. "Now, keep your eyes _shut_ and trust me." She pulls me out of the chair, and I follow blindly. She guides me a few steps, and when she stops, I think that we're somewhere near the middle of the room. "Keep still while I finish putting your costume on." I don't' say anything as she jams a funny feeling cap on my head, and then she's attaching something to my shoulders. "Now, give me one of your feet so we can get your boots on. You can hold on to me if you need to." Due to the fact that I cannot see, my balance is a little worse than usual. I clutch to Portia like she's a lifeline as she rams a knee-high boot on my foot. And then I give her the other foot, and the second boot goes on.

"Are we done yet?" I whine mockingly, and she flicks my forehead again.

"Yes, you griper in an oversized diaper, we're done." I screw up my face in displeasure at the name calling, and she laughs again.

"You're the one who put me in the diaper!" I complain, and I'm popped on the back of the head again.

"I did nothing of the sort," she says firmly, "Just wait until you see your costume and we'll see if you still think I shoved your ass into a diaper."

"Yes," I say aloofly, "But that would require me being able to open my eyes."

"Go ahead and look, your majesty." I make a face in the direction I heard her voice coming from, and then I open my eyes. She's beaming at me, and her expression is full of pride. When I turn towards the mirror, I can see why. My costume is like nothing I have ever seen before. The unitard she put me in is black, as black as coal. The funny cap I felt her shoving onto my head is black too, but it's covered in shimmering streams of red, orange, and yellow. Depending on how the light hits them, they change colors. It has a magical quality to it, and I'm glad that Portia made me wait. It was completely worth it. And to top it all off, I've been given a long cape made of sheer black fabric, but it's completely covered in the fiery streamers. My costume seems to be made of fire. No – I _am_ fire. There's no way anyone will be able to forget this.

"Do you like it?" She asks anxiously, as if she's afraid that I won't. I don't see how that could be possible.

"It's incredible." I say softly, and Portia comes around from my side and stands behind me.

"And that's not all," she says excitedly, "Cinna and I came up with a synthetic flame. We'll be setting you both on fire just before you join the precession of the other Districts. You'll both steal the show, I guarantee it." I'm too horrified about being burned alive to pay attention to the rest of her sentence. You don't play with fire. Period. And now, my stylist plans on baking Katniss and me alive in front of Panem. Portia has to be insane. I stare at her in horror, and she quickly tries to disband my fears. "Oh, don't worry! You'll be perfectly safe, I promise you."

Yes, and Effie Trinket will be the winner of the next Hunger Games. I smile weakly to try and convince her that I believe her, and she seems too wrapped up in her thoughts to realize what's going through my head. It's probably better that way.

"Alright. We've got to go meet with Cinna before we go down to the stables." She starts moving towards the door, but I stay in front of the mirror, looking at my face for the last time before it's horribly scarred and burned from her fire. "Quit being such a narcissist, Peeta! We don't have all evening." I look away from the mirror to glare darkly at her, and she smiles cheekily at me. She sticks her tongue out at me, I roll my eyes, and after taking a lingering look at my glittery face, I follow her out the door.

She's in a hurry, and I nearly have to run to keep up with her as she moves down the corridor. I worry for a moment that we really are running late, but I have a feeling that Portia just wants to get there early. After all, I've never heard of tributes being late the Opening Ceremonies, and surely, she's been warned about making sure we're on time. Even if we are the least impressive District, we're still part of the Games, and we're still under the complete and total control of the Capitol.

We reach the elevator at the end of the hall, and she presses the button several times. I arch my eyebrow in question, and she rolls her eyes at me. I really do like Portia. Too bad I'm dying in the arena. I think that if she lived in District 12 that we would be good friends, regardless of the fact she's at least five years older than me. Finally, the elevator dings, and the door slides open. Portia literally shoves me in, and I stumble exaggeratedly, and I end up ramming into the wall. I shoot her a look of accusation, and she rolls her shoulders in an innocent shrug. There's no way that Katniss' stylist can compare with her. I haven't met him, but I'm sure that I got the better end of the deal. Even if she is plotting to cook me, she's still really nice.

We ride in silence down to the sixty-third floor, and when the door opens, we're met by my babbling prep team. Mercedes and Lileium squeal and clutch each other, and they're both talking over the top of each other, telling me how fabulous I look. Artemis is still silent, but he's smiling widely at me. In fact, his grin is so big that his eyes are being stretched further apart, and his nose looks even flatter. I smile weakly back, and I remember that they're contributing to the fact that I'm about to be burned alive. Portia exchanges a few pleasant words with them, and even though she's deliberately tried to push through them and get to the other end of the hall, they're staying put. I see why she was in such a hurry. Undoubtedly, Portia knew that her prep team was planning on doing this. Even if they don't mean it, I can see how they're kind of a nuisance.

After nearly five minutes of Lileium and Mercedes blabbing incessantly, Portia just ignores them and pushes through the three of them. However, her prep team doesn't seem to matter at all, and they just follow her and keep chattering like a flock of colorful noisy birds. I bring up the back, and with each step I take towards t end of the hall, I become more and more anxious. Are we going to get set on fire in here? Have they even tested this stuff? How can they be sure it won't hurt us? We reach the end of the hall, and all too soon, we're through a door that reads: "District Twelve, Female Tribute Prep Room". As I squish myself past Mercedes and Lileium, I'm stunned by what I see. There's a man – most likely Cinna – putting the last touches of makeup on Katniss' face, and she looks absolutely stunning. There's hardly any makeup on her face, but like me, she has gold glitter brushed along her cheekbones. She's wearing glittery mascara, and although it's mainly gold, flecks of shiny red are visible. Her eyes look like liquid mercury, and are in stark contrast with the red, orange, and yellow costume that she's wearing. Her dark hair is in a simple braid down her back, and there's no mistaking her for anyone other than Katniss Everdeen.

But she's more than the girl from District 12. Katniss is beautiful. She looks like she's on fire, and Cinna and Portia haven't even barbequed us yet. I try not to gape openly at her as I stare silently. Of course, everyone is thrilled about the splash we're going to make, and between my prep team and Katniss', they're making enough noise to give me a headache. Portia is laughing and smiling right along with them, but Cinna is quietly and humbly accepting any congratulations that any of them offer. For the first time, I take a good look at him.

Cinna seems to be the exact opposite of Portia. Where she's curvier, and short, he's tall and lanky, Where she has light, wavy hair, he has dark curly hair. His eyes are a bright green-gold, and are in almond in shape. Like her, he's attractive, and if I were a woman, I'm sure that I'd think that he's stunning. I wonder if that's what Katniss thinks. After a few more minutes of babbling, Portia herds us all out of the room and into the elevator. The ten of us are a tight squeeze, but everyone's very careful about not stepping on our capes, and we make it down to the stables without incident. As we step out into the huge bottom chamber of the Remake Center, I realize that we've gone below the parking garage that we pulled into earlier this morning. In fact, we must be in the belly of the Capitol.

Here, there are twelve chariots lined up, and a team of four horses standing motionless before each of them. The horses for our District are coal black. They're just as dark as our costumes. As I climb into the tall, ornate, gold and black chariot, I forget to be worried about the horses. I've heard that they're very well trained, and for the moment, that's enough for me. I'm more concerned about being lit on fire and burned to death. As soon as Katniss is beside me, Portia comes around and drapes my cape back across the end of the chariot so that when we move it will look like fire on the wind. Cinna does the same with Katniss', and after Portia makes a final adjustment to my fiery cap, she and Cinna move off to talk in hushed undertones. No doubt, about how they're going to explain the burns to everyone once their finished with us. I swallow nervously and keep my gaze straight ahead.

"What do you think about the fire?" Asks Katniss in a forced whisper, and the sound of her voice nearly startles me. I look at her out of the corner of my eye and answer her through my teeth.

"I'll rip off your cape if you rip off mine." I'm sure she's looking forward to being burned every bit as much as I am.

"Deal," she says with determination, "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle." I look at her out of the corner of my eye, and even in the dim light of the stables, her eyes are shining brightly.

"Where is Haymitch, anyway?" I ask her, "Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" As the single mentor for District 12, it _is_ his job to make sure we get into the arena unscathed. Not to mention that he's supposed to make sure that one of us gets out alive, but in his absence, his promise seems less and less sincere.

"With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame," she says this dryly, and before I can stop myself, I'm laughing right along with her. Katniss has a very sarcastic sense of humor, and I've always had a liking for sarcasm. Growing up with my mother, it was what I assumed her 'affectionate' humor to be. Letting her use sarcasm as a shield, and allowing myself to believe that she was only kidding was one of the ways I assured myself that she loved me. I know better now, but I still enjoy sarcasm.

As our laughter dies away, the opening music to the Hunger Games begins to play. The next time I hear this, I will be in the arena. I try not to flinch at the thought. Instead, I look up ahead to see the massive stable doors sliding open to reveal the packed streets. Everyone seems to be screaming, waving, and cheering. Finally, after waiting a whole year, their Hunger Games have officially begun again. Now's the time to pick your favorite tribute, whether it be the sexiest or the brawniest you see, or just picking the tribute with the best costume. It's all down to the odds. And lately, the odds have not been in my favor.

The pure white chariot of District 1 pulls out of the stables, and the crowd's roar is deafening. District 1 are always the favorites. They're the Capitol's lapdogs, and the District produces their luxury items. It seems that the winner of the Hunger Games is always from 1. As District 2 follows them out, their steel grey chariots pulled by dappled peppery horses, our own horses get in position to follow them. My stomach begins churning. Soon, we'll be facing the Capitol. And even more frightening, we're about to be set on fire.

Just as the chestnut colored horses of District 11 are prancing out of the door, pulling the ivory-skinned tributes from the Agriculture District behind them, our own horses begin dancing nervously. Cinna reappears by Katniss' side, holding a torch that is burning menacingly. "Here we go then," he says in a low tone of voice, and before I can try and scramble away, he sets us both on fire. My cape and funky hat are both aflame, and as I prepare to be horribly burned, I shut my eyes tight and cringe. But as the flame tickles my forehead and licks my shoulders, it only tickles. It isn't even hot. I stare at Cinna in amazement, and he looks incredibly relieved. "It works," he breathes, and my jaw nearly drops. He didn't test this before-hand? And I thought Portia was insane. What if it had burned us? I'm stunned, and my eyes follow him as he places his hand under Katniss' chin and forces her to look up. "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

Katniss immediately smiles, and even if it's a fake one, she positively glows. The flame surrounding her reminds me of a halo, or a beacon; burning so brightly, that I can't help but feel hopeful. I smile too, and following the madman's instructions, I tilt my chin up. Cinna flashes a smile at us, and then jumps off the side of the chariot. He lands gracefully on the ground, almost like a cat. He grins at us, waves in a goodbye, but then he seems to have another idea. As our horses begin prancing, ready to give the people of the Capitol a show, he starts shouting at us. But his voice is totally drowned out by the music. After that, he raises his hands up above his head and clasps them together, and he keeps shouting at us.

"What's he saying?" Katniss asks, and I keep my eyes on Cinna, trying to figure that out.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say uncertainly, but it's good enough for Katniss. She takes a hold of my hand, grips it tightly, and my heart skips a beat. I blink, swallow, and try my best to get myself under control. For the first time _ever_, after over eleven years, I'm closer to Katniss than I was an hour ago. So what if she's acting on the orders of her stylist? She's still touching me. I grip her hand tightly, acutely aware of the little scars riddling her hand from years of hunting. I try to focus on Cinna confirming that we're holding hands, but before I know it, Katniss and I are launched into the Capitol.

At first, the crowd seems frightened by the fact that we're on fire. No doubt, they're worried that we're burning alive. But as soon as they realize that it's just part of our costumes, they begin to roar with approval. My heart begins pounding in my chest and adrenaline courses through me. I'm panicking. Am I? I can't even be sure of that much anymore. The crowd is screaming our names, and I realize that we've taken the attention away from the three chariots ahead of us. In fact, we may very well be stealing the show.

I glance up at a large television screen that has been attached to the top of the stadium, and I'm nearly blown away by how amazing we look. In the dreary grey of the evening, we're glowing brightly, and the smiles plastered on our faces only seem to enhance that. Katniss is breathtaking. She looks like a rare flower, with red, yellow, gold, orange, and russet flames swirling around her face like a halo. The glitter scattered on her face is reflecting the fire, and her eyes are popping in contrast to the warm colors. I am stunned by her.

As we continue moving down the streets, our horses seem to realize that we are now the center of attention, and they begin prancing with a nervous energy, stepping higher and higher. Katniss begins holding my hand in a vice-like grip, and she's leaning out as far as she can, blowing kisses, smiling, and waving. I immediately copy her, and I lean as far as I can to my right, waving like a maniac, smiling widely, and trying to gain popularity for the both of us. Surely, with costumes like these, people will love us. People will sponsor us, and I can get Katniss out alive. I can make sure that she gets back to Gale.

For the next twenty minutes, I keep waving and smiling to the roaring crowd, and I soak up the attention. I wonder what my mother is saying about me now. More than likely, she's complaining, and finding something wrong with my appearance. My father would be proud through. For the first time, District 12 has taken the spotlight, and I'm one of the tributes in the center of attention. I bet back home everyone is going nuts over us. Thanks to Portia and Cinna, we're now beautiful. For the first time since the reaping, I feel hopeful. Because of the fire they gave us, Katniss has a chance. Because of the inspiration to be different, and to be new, I may be able to get her out of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games alive. My smile grows wider with the thought.

As we pull into the City Circle, Katniss suddenly loosens her grip on my hand. As soon as her support is gone, I nearly fall flat on my face out of the chariot. And besides, I liked holding her hand. After eleven years of waiting, I'm not about to let something like that go so easily.

"No, don't let go of me." I say desperately, "Please, I might fall out of this thing." I turn from the crowd only a moment to look at her, and I can nearly see the gears turning in her mind. Surely, she isn't thinking that I'm trying to trick her into believing that I'm weak. But, with the way she's biting her lip, I fear that may be exactly what's going through her mind.

"Okay," she says after a few moments, and I take her hand in mine again. It's a pleasant feeling, to have Katniss so close to me. Although the circumstances aren't exactly the best, it's better than her being here without someone willing to get her home. Soon after we pull into the City Circle, the chariots stop, and the music ends with a flourish. Our horses prance nervously as President Snow comes out of his mansion, and I wish that it was socially acceptable for me to fidget nervously too. President Snow, although nearly wizened with old age, is a terrifyingly powerful man. He begins his opening speech, and it's the same as it is every year. He welcomes us into his city, and he wishes us luck in the days to come. He goes on and on about what an honor it is to hold the Hunger Games, and how honored we should be to be fighting for glory of our Districts. And Effie Trinket has the nerve to call District 12 barbaric. This is nothing but glorified slaughtering.

President Snow finishes his speech with the traditional, "And may the odds be ever in your favor!" and the chariots are on their way again. As we roll away, wreathed in flame, the cameras are locked on our image. It's nearly impossible to ignore us, burning as brightly as we are. And then, we're in the Training Center, and the doors have slammed tightly behind us. I'm not leaving this building until the day that I'm transported into the arena.

As soon as our black horses stop, but Katniss keeps my hand locked in her's. I can't help but smile. Before I can blink, we're engulfed by both of the prep teams, and Mercedes and Lileium are squealing madly with a pea-green woman who looks like she's about to burst into tears of joy. For the first time, I take a good look at Katniss' prep team, and I decide her trio of chattering monkeys are more normal than mine. Besides the fact one of them is_ _Chartreuse, they seem pretty normal. And then the stylists are there, and they're helping us down from the ivory colored deathtrap. It's a long ways down, and since Katniss is still clinging to me, it's kind of hard to get out. But I manage. __

Portia comes to my side and squeezes me in a tight grip, and I smile at her. "Great job, Peeta," she says encouragingly, and then proceeds to extinguish the fire from my head and my cape with some kind of spray can. I look at the shiny streamers longingly, and I kind of miss the flame. Since I wasn't burned alive, I've come to the conclusion that synthetic fire is pretty neat. Portia laughs at me as she puts out the fire in Katniss' costume. While I'm vaguely listening to the babble of our prep teams, I look around the inside of the Training Center, and I'm not surprised to see that practically everyone is glaring at us. No doubt, we're even more popular than the Careers at this point. That will be fun to deal with in the arena.

Suddenly, Katniss lets go of my hand. Just then I realize just how stiff it is, and I have to massage the blood flow back into my fingers. "Thanks for keeping a hold of me," I say while looking down at my hand, "I was getting a little shaky there."

"It didn't show," She says lightly, "I'm sure no one noticed." I sneak a glance at her, and I see that she's rubbing her hand too. I hope I didn't crush her fingers too badly.

"I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you," I say warmly, and she looks up at me suspiciously. "You should wear flames more often. They suit you." I smile at her, as if a smile and a compliment can make her trust me. I know that it can't but I might as well try. If I'm going to be dying for her, I don't want her to hate me.

She looks at me quizzically, and then she does something that catches me completely off guard. Katniss Everdeen stands up on her tiptoes, and kisses my cheek. Right on top of the ugly, purple bruise that Haymitch gave me this morning. I gasp audibly as she pulls away, and as she returns to her regular height, she smiles sweetly up at me. I don't even know what to think. My heart is pounding, a million and one thoughts are racing through my head, and I realize that she just _kissed_ me. Is it possible that she feels the same way for me? Is it possible that she's been hiding love for me, all the while convincing Gale that she loves him? Or has her relationship with Gale just been a ploy, and she's just been trying to make me jealous all these years? I don't' know. I don't think I'll ever know.

**Sorry guys, I know this one is kind of long, I just couldn't find a breaking point. :) Keep reviewing, please! I'm sure I'll figure out how to fix the review respond button one of these days... Just know that I appreciate your reviews IMMENSELY! They keep me writing! :D **


	11. Chapter 11

It takes me a few moments to realize that we are standing in utter silence. All eight members of our prep teams are staring at us. A crimson blush rises to my face, but Katniss doesn't seem to be bothered by this at all. She blinks at me, batting her sparkly eyelashes, and then stalks off towards Cinna. I'm completely confused. Just what is she getting at? Before this, she's never showed any interest in me. And suddenly, she's kissing my cheek and smiling at me like a lovesick ten year-old! I look over incredulously at Portia, and while she doesn't look stunned, she looks more than mildly surprised. I'm starting to feel desperate, and I throw my shoulder back towards Katniss as if to ask Portia for advice. She shakes her head ever so slightly, and I realize that she doesn't know any more than I do. How lovely.

I sigh heavily, and cross the distance between Portia and I. By now, everyone on my team surely knows how I feel, and I'm sure that Cinna suspects something too. Although, I couldn't really care less about what my prep team thinks, I honestly value Portia's good opinion. Katniss didn't need to go flaunting that if she didn't really mean it. Before I know it, I'm irritated at her. I'm irritated at her for kissing me – which is something I've been wishing to happen forever! Only she would be able to kiss me and somehow irritate me. It's just like Katniss. She's so complex I could probably spend my whole life trying to figure her out and never learn anything.

Just as Portia is about to say something, the door beside us bursts open, and out comes Effie Trinket. I'm initially shocked by her reappearance, because I thought that she was done once Katniss and I reached the Capitol. Apparently not! It seems that I get to enjoy a daily dose of Effie until I get into the arena. That's marvelous news. Apart from the fact District 12 is now immensely popular, I don't' see how this evening could get any worse.

"You both were ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!" She screams, ripping me away from Portia and crushing me into a tight hug. "Oh, I just _knew_ that you two were going to be marvelous! I _knew_ it! Even if you both are from District 12! No matter what anyone else told me, I said: 'You just wait; those two are going to be something else!' And you WERE!" She finally releases me, and I'm able to wriggle out of her entirely. After she's done with me, she waddles over to Katniss and makes a whole speech about how dazzling she was. And although I hate to admit it, I have to agree with Effie. Even though she's not on fire any more, Katniss is still beautiful.

After Effie babbles for another five minutes, she seems to realize that we're the last tributes standing in the stables, and she quickly herds Katniss and me through the door and into an elevator at the end of a dazzlingly white hallway. Thankfully, Portia and Cinna follow closely behind us, and I'm not sure where the prep teams have gotten off to. But where they went doesn't really matter: as long as I don't have to put up with Mercedes and Lileium being ridiculous for the rest of the evening, I'll be perfectly happy.

As the five of us settle into the elevator, I'm stunned to see that it has been crafted of pure crystal. Unlike the elevator in the Justice Building back home, this elevator is beautiful. I hardly pay attention as Effie punches the button marked: '12' with a fat fist, because I'm too busy looking at the Capitol below. Everyone seems to be throwing a huge street party. I look straight down at the clear floor, watching in amazement as the people get smaller and smaller as we rise higher and higher. Somewhere around the eighth floor, the colors being to blur, and now I can only make out moving dabs of green, blue, and pink where there are people moving about.

All too quickly, we arrive on our floor, but I'm reluctant to leave the elevator. It's so captivating. But I know that it would be foolish to use it any more than is necessary, and I don't want to appear dim-witted in front of Portia. But, as Effie marches on out, leading us to our separate rooms, and is blabbing incessantly about how she's been working all day to try and earn us sponsors, my mind is on Katniss. Only when she mentions how clever she was in saying how coal turns to pearls with enough pressure am I jerked out of my thoughts, and after sharing a quick glance of mild confusion with Katniss, I just go with it. Effie looks so pleased with herself that it would be heartless to correct her.

As we reach the end of the corridor, Effie directs Katniss to her room, and simply gestures at mine - which is across the hall. I'm not really all that bothered by the fact that she's paying more attention to Katniss, because I'm really used to it. I've been ignored all of my life, and a few offhand gestures from my escort aren't going to bother me. I can take care of myself.

But, just as I push open the solid oak door of my room, I'm stopped by a gentle voice calling my name.

"Peeta," says Cinna, and when I turn back to look at him, I'm greeted with a weary smile. "Before you get too comfortable in your room, why don't I show the rooftop? It's a great place to relax. Good place to unwind a bit, maybe clear your head." I know that although he sounds like he's trying to help me, he's really just looking out for Katniss. If he's anything at all like Portia, then I know I have a long conversation to come. Surely, she'd do this for me if my and Katniss' places were reversed. At least, I hope that she would.

I look at Cinna for a moment, searching his green eyes for the motivation behind this. I have a feeling that he's like Portia: he seems to genuinely care about Katniss. I feel like Portia and I are good friends, and I hope that Cinna is the same way with Katniss. If he wants to help her, that makes him my ally – even if I am irritated with her. I nod, and he takes off. I follow him down the sterile white corridor, through the door at the end, and then up the stairs to the roof. Once I've climbed the twenty steps, Cinna is waiting for me inside of a dome-shaped room. It's white too, but it somehow seems freer and airier. I decide I like it. Then, Katniss' stylist leads me out the single door, and I'm floored by the view.

From up here, you can see the entire city. Skyscrapers tower over us, the colored glass looking even more impressive up close. There are advertisements _everywhere_, the flashier ones being large television screens proudly showing off countless fashions and faces. I try to soak it all in, but I know that I'll never be able to. This place is disgusting. The Capitol is a horrible, monstrous, crime against humanity hiding in rose petals and shiny lights. Here, the Hunger Games are fun to watch, and I'm sure that someone will try to convince me that they're fun to participate in too. But at home, they're a nightmare. Everyone is terrified of being reaped, and everyone is terrified for the families that are ripped apart. By forcing us to participate in the Hunger Games, the Capitol is placing us all against each other, and dividing us with fissures that seem to crack Panem all the way to the core of the Earth. It's no wonder we don't stand a chance against the Capitol. There is simply no way that we can beat them; not when we're trapped playing their twisted Games like we are.

I try to keep the utter revulsion off of my face as I move towards the rail lining the edge of the roof. I lean over as far as I dare, looking down at the crowded, partying street below. For a split second, I consider climbing up the railing and throwing myself off the edge to die a peaceful death. But as I think it though, I realize that for one, then Katniss would have no one to make sure she makes it out of the arena, other than Haymitch, and I don't fully trust him yet – I doubt I ever will. And for another thing, I'm not ready to die yet. I don't want to die the death of a coward. If I die, then I want it to do someone good. I'll just wait until I get into the arena.

I turn my head towards the north, looking after a car speeding down on the street. I'm met by the wind, howling fiercely and plastering blonde curls to my forehead. I can hardly hear Cinna when he speaks.

"What did you think of your costume, Peeta?" He asks, suddenly appearing beside me. I look at him, and he's wearing a ghost of a smile on his face. I decide I like Cinna too.

"As soon as I realized I wasn't being cooked alive, I really liked it." I say, "You and Portia did a fantastic job."

"I'm glad you like it," he says, as if the approval of the Capitol and winning us sponsors are trivial compared to what Katniss and I think. I find it hard to believe that he truly values my opinion that much, but it's appreciated nonetheless.

We stand in silence for a few moments, because I'm not really sure what to say. It's not often that I'm treated kindly, and when I am, I tend to shell up. Almost like I'm trying to protect myself from being treated with respect – for whatever reason, I've always been like that. My mother always said I was a strange child.

"Cinna," I ask, unable to take the silence anymore, "Why do they let us up here? Aren't they worried some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?" Even though I've turned my gaze back to the street below, I have a feeling that he knows I was half-contemplating jumping over a few minutes ago.

"You can't." He says flatly. "Look." I follow his gaze to his hand, and as he reaches out into the night, I hear a sharp _zap_. Cinna draws his hand back as if he were burned, and although his expression doesn't suggest he's in pain, he rubs his hand gently.

"Oh," I say softly, and I'm glad I didn't try jumping earlier. There's no telling how burned I would have been. Cinna's quiet after that, and it makes me nervous. I can't stop thinking about Katniss kissing my cheek, and I know that's why he brought me up here. Why else would he? It should be Portia spending time with me, seeing as she's my stylist. And since Cinna is Katniss' stylist, I can't see why he'd be talking to me unless it concerned her. "Cinna?" I finally ask timidly, but I'm not really sure how to outright ask him about Katniss. Even though I'm sure that's why he's here, it would be awkward if he denied it. Maybe, he'd even force me to tell him how I feel about her. Cinna doesn't seem like the type of person to do that, but you never know.

Cinna seems to notice how uncomfortable I am. He looks away from the streets and meets my gaze.

"Yes?" He prompts, and he looks very patient. It gives me confidence.

"Why – why did you bring me up here? I mean, it's nice, but shouldn't you be showing Katniss this? Since she's your tribute and all." I stammer, trip over my words, and end up scarlet. Cinna looks seriously at me, and I have the sinking feeling that he can read my thoughts.

"You mean why me and not Portia?" I'm thankful for the answer he provides me with, and I'm sure the relief is evident on my face.

"Yes, exactly." Cinna looks thoughtful for a moment.

"I just want to get to know you a better. Seeing as Portia and I are presenting you and Katniss as a team, I thought that it would be wise to learn a little bit more about you, if not gain insight into the style you prefer." His answer makes sense, but it's avoiding the truth. If he does not want to admit it, I'm not going to press him into it. I just nod, and we stand in silence for another five minutes before he announces that it's nearly time for dinner. With a small, tired smile Cinna gestures back towards the dome, and I follow without question. As we walk past, I catch sight of a garden, and I wonder if it would be okay to see it. But, Cinna is walking rather quickly, and I realize that we may be late as it is. I'll just see the garden some other time, and head down for dinner now. Effie will not be happy if I'm any later to dinner.

As we climb down the stairs, Cinna offers a word of parting advice. "Peeta," He says, "I would suggest getting changed before dinner. The fabric that your costume is made from will begin to itch if it's left on your skin too long."

"Thanks," I say as he opens my door for me, and I see him disappear around the corner as I enter my room. Initially, I'm taken aback by how lavish my quarters are. They're even fancier than the train! Not mention that this room is larger than the entire bakery and the kitchens put together. The carpets are plush, and a rich cream color that screams extravagance. My bedding and the walls are a deep red color, eerily like blood. My nose wrinkles in distaste. In my final days before the Games, I was hoping to have at least one safe refuge from the pain that's sure to come, but apparently, even my own room carries a reminder of the unavoidable future. I try my best to ignore the walls as I stalk over to my closet, but it's impossible. With a sigh of disgust, I peel the black costume off of my skin, and I mess around with the programing screen on my closet until I get the hang of it. Without really paying attention, I select dark pants, a green shirt, and a light jacket. It was kind of cold up on the roof, but it was nice. I think I'll go back up there before I go to bed.

I can hear Effie knocking rapidly on my door. It must be time for dinner. I leave my costume on the floor because I'm not really sure what to do with it, and leave my room without a backward glance. The more I think of the red walls, the more I think of the Games, and the more I think of my impossible task. How on Earth do you keep someone alive when someone will constantly be trying to kill them? How am I supposed to watch Katniss' back when I've got to watch mine too? I know that there's no way I'm going to survive the Games, but I want to stay in long enough to make sure that she gets out. Otherwise… I don't want to think about the consequences of failing.

I pad quietly down the hall, and I'm thankful for Effie's absence. I assume that she's already in the dining room, gorging herself on the delicacies. As I think of Effie stuffing her face with tarts and pies, I suddenly remember Katniss with the chocolate frosting smeared across her face. I laugh softly at the memory. I can't believe that was only yesterday. I can't believe that I was home yesterday. I know that the Capitol is hundreds of miles away from District 12, but it feels like I'm millions of miles away from home, and my old life. I'm not even the same Peeta anymore. My biggest concern isn't trying to gather up the courage to talk to Katniss anymore: now it's trying to make sure she stays alive. Two days ago, I was worried about what she thought of me, and how I was going to ever get anywhere with her. I was busy plotting away conversations that would never take place, and hating myself for being such a coward.

Now, I have to be brave, or she dies. And if she dies… There won't be a reason for living. I'd sooner commit suicide then allow Katniss to die in the arena. I'd rather see her happy and with Gale than dead.

After a few turns down the corridor, I reach the dining room. I'm slightly surprised to see that Effie isn't pigging out at the table yet. In fact, she isn't anywhere to be seen. However, Cinna and Portia are here, standing on the balcony that overlooks the Capitol. I'm slightly nervous about intruding on them, so I linger in the doorway instead. I think they're talking, but from over here, I can't see what they're saying. No doubt, it's probably something about our interview costumes. Usually, those aren't nearly as flashy as the Opening Ceremonies costumes. The interview costumes are a way to gain insight into the tribute. Usually, the girls from Career Districts are stuffed into gaudy gowns. The males from the Career Districts nearly always wear black tuxedos.

I spend the next minutes worrying about what I'll be wearing to the interviews, and I'm jerked from my thoughts when Effie comes bustling behind me, rudely brushing past me in her haste. I look over my shoulder at her as she continues down the hallway, muttering something about manners. I wouldn't be surprised if she had just been to see Haymitch.

"Peeta!" Says Portia loudly, and I look back towards the balcony to see her smiling at me. Since when did she know that I was here? "Why don't you come over here with Cinna and me? We're discussing your costumes. I'd like to know what you think about something."

"I – Okay," I stammer, and I wander over to where the stylists are standing. I decide to stand by Portia since she's the one who called me over. She keeps smiling at me, and it makes me wonder if I'll be walking to my interview on fire. Although it turned out to be harmless, it was still nerve-wracking. I do not want a repeat of the fake flames. Though, it would certainly tie in with my District, but fire reflects Katniss' personality more than it does mine. I'm more like a lump of dough. Quiet, gentle, and pretty bland.

"So," starts off Portia, "We're thinking that we should continue with the flame thing, seeing how popular it was at the Opening Ceremonies-" She's so excited that it seems like she's talking a million miles an hour.

"Am I going to be on fire again?" I interrupt, desperate to know if I'll be burning again. It _looked_ nice, and even though I liked it after I got over the fact I was burning, the thought of it makes me nervous. You can only defy the laws of nature so many times without getting burned. Portia winks at me, and there's a mischievous glimmer in her blue eyes. That worries me. A lot.

"Kind of," she says, and her smile is getting wider by the moment. "If you're asking if we'll be using the synthetic flame again, then the answer's no. We wouldn't want to set Caesar's couches on fire." I smile weakly at her. I'm relieved that I won't be on fire again… Surely, there can't be something worse than lighting us on fire. But judging from the look on her face, Portia has just come up with something that is.

But before she can continue, Effie is bustling into the dining room, saying that Haymitch will be joining us for dinner. She scrambles to the table, immediately taking her seat. She's placing a napkin on her lap, and then messing around with her silverware. The three of us start heading over towards the table slowly, and apparently, that isn't good enough for Effie Trinket.

"Well come on!" She says overly-enthusiastically, "Hurry up! Let's eat!" There's a hint of desperation in her voice. I think she's hoping to have us through the meal before Haymitch shows up. I don't really blame her. However, I'm the only one who picks up my pace. Cinna and Portia take their time, and in their own ways, they both look very amused. When they finally get to the table, Portia takes a seat beside me, and I'm grateful for it. I wouldn't want to be trapped sitting next to Haymitch. I have a feeling that he's still very angry with me.

As we wait for our food to be served, Cinna, Portia, and Effie talk politely. Effie is only gushing with praised for their costumes, and while Portia is accepting the praise with a smile, Cinna is incredibly modest. He and Portia are so different, it's kind of shocking. I secretly think that they would be a nice couple. I hope that Portia is having more luck than I am. But then again, she doesn't have to die for Cinna anytime soon. He's just a stylist. It's not like either of them will ever have to go into the arena. Even though I like them, it's kind of hard not to resent them. But then again, they are working on making sure that Katniss and I look good for the sponsors. I at least owe Portia understanding, seeing as she's helping me keep Katniss alive.

I glance around at the white-clad servants, wondering when we'll be able to eat. I'm actually getting kind of hungry. The last time I ate was back in the Remake Center, and that was probably a few hours ago. Just thinking of that chicken is making my mouth water. I hardly notice as Katniss joins us at the table. I catch her eye for a fraction of a second, but trying to see what she's thinking is like trying to read a brick. I concentrate on ignoring her for the rest of the meal, and that alone is a big enough task on its own. But soon enough, I'm provided with something else to worry about. Just as we're being served our food, Haymitch joins us at the table.

I don't think I've ever seen him so clean before. He's even shaved the gray, scraggly, scruff off of his face. Haymitch looks like he's five years younger without it. I think he's even put makeup on over the dark circles under his eyes. I can hardly imagine Haymitch condoning having makeup smeared on his face, because I know that I don't like it. He must have his own stylist who's forced him to do it.

One of the silent servers piles my plate high with food that smells fantastic, and offers me wine. I politely decline it, because seeing Haymitch has scared me into being sober. I refuse to end up like him. I won't even drink wine _once. _Water will be fine for me. However, I'm surprised to see that Katniss has taken some. I look at her incredulously for a moment, and she just shrugs. I stare at her for a moment longer, and I can't help but notice how her eyes are in stark contrast with the blue blouse she's wearing. Then, I remember that I'm supposed to be ignoring her. I spend the majority of the meal sneaking glances at Haymitch, torn between awe of his younger appearance and fear that he's going to launch himself across the table and strangle me. Although he's being surprisingly civil, he keeps glancing at me. There's a fire in his grey eyes that, quite frankly, scares me. At least I know that he'll only be helping Katniss in the arena.

I eat my food quickly, hardly paying attention to what I'm shoveling into my mouth. It tastes pretty good through. I start thinking about home, and I realize with a pang that Sesame is most likely dead. My cat was one of the few things I was sure that I shared a mutual affection with. My mother, no doubt, has already drowned her. Or even worse, gotten to her with a butcher knife. She threatened to slit Sesame's throat in a fury, once. There'd only be one reason to kill cat like that: to upset someone. Me, in particular. After that, I had taken Sesame over to Delly's for a week, just to make sure that she'd stay safe. By the time I brought her home, my mother had gotten over whatever it was that made her so angry, but that threat is the one that haunts me the most. It's the worst one that she's made.

And then, just as I decide that I'm fully, a huge cake is brought to our table. I look the swirled patterns on the icing longingly, suddenly struck with another bout of homesickness. But it gets even better. One of the servers takes out a weird looking contraption, pulls something that oddly resembles a trigger, and lights the cake on fire_. _With a _whoosh _the flames ignite, and I jerk backwards in surprise. I nearly fall out of my chair, but I somehow manage to grab a hold of the table before I topple backwards. The cake is fizzling and popping dangerously, and it takes me a few moments to get over my initial terror. Effie and Portia are wearing near identical expressions of fascination, Haymitch looks mildly amused, and Cinna is smiling gently. I look to Katniss, expecting surprise, and I'm met with something else entirely. She doesn't just look surprised; she looks terrified. In a single instant, the blood seems to leave her face, and she's staring wide-eyed at the server. I haven't been paying attention to the conversation before this, so I'm only able to catch the back end of it.

"-That's the last thing I wa – _I know you!" _

**Thank you all for your ****wonderful reviews! You're the best! :D And Canadian-Girl14, I apologize for the inconsistency. I honestly meant ebony-skinned, and somehow, ivory came out :) Anyways, thanks for reading! Please review!  
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	12. Chapter 12

Quickly, almost too quickly, the server denies it with a shake of her head, and scuttles off, her long red hair whipping behind her. She looked even more terrified than Katniss. At first, I'm incredibly confused. How is it possible that Katniss knows her? She's a servant in the Capitol! It's not like Katniss has ever been here before, and I've never seen that woman in my life. I glance to Portia, as if she knows what's going on, and she looks utterly appalled. In something near panic, I look to the other adults at the table, and what I see does not make me feel any better. Effie looks completely shocked, Haymitch look uneasy, and Cinna has his brows knit and his lips pursed in displeasure. Frantically, I look back to Katniss, trying to wrap my head around the situation, and she looks uneasy, ashamed, and afraid. I'm suddenly worried for not only her, but for me too. Whatever she just did wasn't good.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss." Snaps Effie bitterly, finally breaking the silence. "How could you possibly know an Avox? The very thought." She says this like it's a bad thing. Like it's a very, very bad thing. I keep looking from Effie to Katniss, wondering what in the world an Avox is. The way that Effie said it, it sounded like she was referring to our serving girl.

"What's an Avox?" Asks Katniss, and her voice is slightly tremulous. She sounds nervous. But, since she's just as clueless as I am, I relax. But only slightly.

"Someone who committed a crime," clarifies Haymitch, "They cut out her tongue so she can't speak. She's probably a traitor of some sort." He pauses here, and pours himself another glass of wine. "Not likely you'd know her." He says this dryly, but there's something else in his tone. It's a warning. He's saying that Katniss needs to drop this, and that she needs to drop this _quickly. _It must be serious.

"And even if you did, you're not to speak to one of them unless it's to give an order." Says Effie, looking at Haymitch's wine glass in distaste. "Of course, you don't really know her." The way she's saying it makes me think of a warning too. And if dimwitted Effie is warning against something, it must be incredibly serious. I glance from Portia to Katniss, and while the former is still looking disgusted, the latter is looking panicky.

No, I guess not," She says desperately, and you can see that she's lying. "I just –" This is not going to be pretty. My eyes flick down at her end of the table, and I see that Katniss has consumed nearly half a glass a wine. She's so little compared to Haymitch, I'm sure she can't drink nearly as much as he can. Haymitch usually gets a little foggy after a glass or so. Everyone is still staring at her suspiciously, and I do the only thing I can. I offer her help.

I snap my fingers in fake realization, and I draw the attention away from Katniss. "Delly Cartwright," I say, giving them the first name that comes to mind. "That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized that she's a dead ringer for Delly." Although I hate lying, it feels like that's my only option at this point. Although the adults all have suspicion written across their faces, I'm glad to see that Katniss looks relieved, grateful even.

"Of course, that's who I was thinking of." She says quickly, "It must be the hair." I had no idea that Katniss could lie so smoothly. Delly's yellow hair is as close to red as I'm close to being olive-skinned. I try to keep my face smooth of surprise as I answer her.

"Something about the eyes too," I say, and Katniss looks completely grateful. The tension melts from the air, and Cinna lightheartedly puts an end to the conversation.

"Oh, well. If that's all it is," he says while carefully slicing the magnificent cake, "And yes, the cake has spirits, but all the alcohol has burned off. I ordered it specially in honor of your fiery debut." After this, the adults continue idly chit-chatting, and Katniss and I eat our cake silently.

As soon as we've all consumed all the cake that we can hold, Effie ushers us into a separate room where we watch the re-runs of the Opening Ceremonies. At first glance, I'd say that the tributes from 1 and 4 looked the best, but as Katniss and I come out of the Remake Center, it's easy to see that we have wiped out the competition entirely. I look mildly interesting, smiling and glowing like a blonde fire-fly, but Katniss is an entirely different story. Katniss Everdeen is not just a tribute with synthetic flame. Katniss Everdeen is not just a tribute who happens to have a very good stylist. Even with her smiling, waving, and blowing kisses to the crowd, it is very easy to see that she is dangerous.

When I say that Katniss is in her element, I mean it entirely. By no means am I suited to wear fire. On me, it simply looks nice. On Katniss, you can practically see her spirit, burning beautifully and dangerously. Not only has she made a nice impression on the audience, but she has given the other tributes a warning. I would be shocked if one of them saw this and truly thought her to be a silly girl with a pretty outfit. You can see her will to survive burning in her eyes. And through watching the simple replayed clips, you can see that she will not be going down without a fight. I would be shocked if sponsors were not tripping over each other to donate their entire fortunes to the girl on fire.

I keep watching the screen, totally mesmerized by Katniss' appearance, and I'm vaguely aware of a conversation between Portia and Haymitch. But all too soon, he's tapping me roughly on the shoulder and addressing Katniss and me with stern instructions.

"Tomorrow is the first training session. Meet me for breakfast and I'll tell you exactly how I want you to play it. Now," He says pointedly, "Go get some sleep while the grown-ups talk." I nod silently, and I quickly get out of the room. I'm not really sure where I stand with Haymitch, but I know that he doesn't like me. I definitely don't want to get in the way of his anger again. The first time wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been, simply because Effie was there to deflect most of it. I don't know if Haymitch can be more explosive than that, but I don't want to find out. I really regret threatening to drown him. I bet that he won't forget that any time soon.

Katniss and I walk through the corridor to our rooms. She still looks tense, and shaken, and I'm curious. I sneak a glance at her from the corner of my eye, and I see that she still looks pale. What on earth could upset her that badly? The more I think about it, the more concerned I get. Is it something that could affect her in the arena? How did she come to know an Avox, anyways? There was no faking the recognition on her face when the red-headed girl was lighting the cake on fire. My lie helped set the adults at ease, but by no means did it do the same for Katniss. And, seeing as I hate lying, I think that I have a right to know what just happened. It's not like her telling me could hurt anything – I'll be dead before the week is out as it is. It's not like I'll be able to tell anyone anything, no matter how bad it is. And even if it was terrible, I would keep my mouth shut.

As we near our rooms, it becomes apparent to me that she won't be telling me unless I ask. In fact, she looks like she doesn't want to talk to me at all. But, I really want to know. Normally, I don't like pressing people, but this feels different. For the first time, I actually have a reason to have a conversation with Katniss. I'm not about to let that slip though my grasp without trying to reach for it.

Slyly, I take a few steps ahead of her, trying to make it look like I'm just hurrying to get to my room. Katniss doesn't even seem to notice, and that will only make this easier on me. Just before I reach my room, I carefully turn towards her door. I lean myself in her doorframe, making sure to look causal. I don't want to frighten her into keeping her mouth shut. I've got to stay pleasant. Sounds easy enough. Katniss stops in front of me, and looks slightly baffled. It's not every day that someone blocks your way into your room.

"So, Delly Cartwright." I say lightly, and I can tell that we both know what I'm talking about. "Imagine finding her lookalike here." Katniss looks uneasy. Perhaps not as uneasy as she looked at the table, but I can tell that she's considering shoving me out of the way and just going into her room. Katniss glances over her shoulder, as if she's worried someone is listening. As if she's afraid telling me will get her into trouble. Maybe this really is serious. "Have you been on the roof yet?" I ask. The roof would be the best place to talk to her if she doesn't want to be heard. I don't think that any of the training is broadcast to the public, but I would be surprised if we weren't on surveillance right now. She shakes her head in decline. "Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though." She seems to understand what I'm saying about the roof being a good place for being a private conversation.

"Can we just go up?" She asks suspiciously, as if I'm trying to get her into trouble, or something. That kind of stings, but I ignore it.

"Sure, come on." I then move away from her doorway, and lead her down the hall and up the stairs. I can hardly hear her behind me, and I can only guess that she's so quiet from years of hunting. I'm tempted to look back and make sure that she's still following me a few times, but once I hear her creaking up the metal stairs, I know that she's still there. I lead her through the white dome, and as we reach the railed rooftop, I'm stunned by how much the Capitol has changed. In the late evening sky, the entire city seems to be lit up, and it's even brighter than our costumes were. I now understand their fascination with Cinna's design: here, bright is good. Here, light is mesmerizing, exquisite, and unworldly. In District 12, we can only depend on electricity during the Hunger Games. Here, it is constant and eternal. They liked us so much because they finally got tributes they think they can relate to – tributes that are just as bright as they are. I wonder how long Cinna and Portia took to puzzle that out. We're both quite for a while, taking in the beauty of the city. I still can't comprehend how a place so utopian could be as dark and twisted as the Capitol. How the Hunger Games could be held in a place that seems to hold no evil.

"I asked Cinna why they let us up here." I say quietly, trying to prod Katniss into conversation. She looks at me disdainfully, as if I interrupted a very important thought. Somehow, I manage to ignore it. "Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?" As I say this, I move close and closer to the rail, preparing to shock myself with the force field. At the very least, that will hold some entertainment value for the people monitoring us.

"What'd he say?" She asks, and she actually sounds intrigued. Maybe she was contemplating suicide before I brought this up. I hope that she wasn't.

"You can't," I answer, and stick my hand out into empty space. There's a familiar _zap_, and my hand suddenly feels like it's been burned. I draw I back quickly, and clutch my burning fingers in a tight grip. I won't be doing that again anytime soon. "Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof."

"Always worried about our safety." She says this flatly, and I hope that there really isn't watching us. Although her comment seemed harmless enough, her tone could land her with a problem. District 12 is the underdog as it is: Katniss does not need anything else against her, especially her own words. "Do you think they're watching us now?" I guess we were thinking the same thing.

"Maybe," I say carefully, and I have a thought. "Come see the garden." It looked nice when I saw a glimpse of it when I was up here with Cinna, and I still want to see it. I lead her around to the other side of the dome, and here, there are neatly kept flower beds and potted trees of various kinds. From the tall branches, there are countless wind chimes, tinkling gently on the evening wind. Here, it would be harder to anyone to hear us talking. As Katniss bends to examine a flower she's definitely not interested in, I watch her expectantly. For being able to lie, she's a terrible actress. She looks up at me, still looking worried, and then returns her gaze back to the blue-and-black blossom. Finally, just above a murmur, she begins explaining.

"We were hunting in the woods one day. Hidden, waiting for game." She says, and I'm stuck with a mental image of Katniss hiding up in a tree with the man that Mrs. Everdeen ran off with. The coal miner, who had a voice that even the birds envied.

"You and your father?" I ask.

"No, my friend Gale." As she says Gales' name, the mental image changes entirely. Now, Katniss and he are hiding in a cave, and Gale is close enough to her to touch her. He's close enough to her to wrap his arms around her, and to kiss her. I'm thankful that Katniss can't see my face, because I'm sure my expression is not a pleasant one. "Suddenly all the birds stopped singing at once. Except one. As if it were giving a warning call. And then we saw her." She must mean red-headed Avox. I try to pay attention to what she's saying, but I can't get the thought of Gale so close to her out of my mind. By now, jealously has corrupted any possibility of sensible thought, and I'm not listening to her anymore.

"I'm sure that it was the same girl," She continues, "A boy was with her. Their clothes were tattered. They had dark circles under their eyes from no sleep. They were running as if their lives depended on it." She pauses here, but that thought barely registers in my mind. I'm too busy plotting Gales' slow and painful death. "The hovercraft appeared from nowhere. I mean, one moment the sky was empty and the next it was there. It didn't make a sound, but they saw it. A net dropped down on the girl, and carried her up, fast, so fast like the elevator. They shot some sort of spear through the boy. It was attached to a cable and they hauled him up as well. But I'm certain that he was dead. We heard the girl scream once. The boy's name, I think. Then it was gone, the hovercraft. Vanished into thin air. And the birds began to sing again, as if nothing had happened." As her voice tapers off from the nighttime air, I'm finally able to shove Gale from my mind. I have to focus for a moment to let what she just told me soak in. Obviously, Katniss is incredibly distressed by this. This runs deeper than just seeing a girl sucked up into a hovercraft.

"Did they see you?" I ask quietly, and I see a twinge of guilt cross her face.

"I don't know. We were under the shelf of a rock." That's a lie. I keep my mouth shut as I watch her, and I can see that's she's struggling to get a hold on herself. She starts shaking, and I have a feeling that it's not just because it's cold up here.

"You're shivering," I say, and quickly pull off my jacket. As I wrap it around her shoulders, I can feel her flinch. I suppose that's to be expected, seeing as she thinks that I'll be trying to kill her in a few days. But to my surprise, she stays where she is, and she slips her arms through the sleeves gratefully.

"They were from here?" I ask, and I carefully button up the jacket, making sure not to pinch her skin. "Where do you suppose they were going?" I honestly don't really care about any of this, but a conversation about an Avox is better than no conversation at all.

"I don't know that," She says reluctantly. She's still uneasy about this, even though she's already told me. I wish that there was more that I could do.

"I'd leave here," I say, as if that could reassure her. I suppose talking can only help. "I'd go home now if they let me." And just as those words leave my mouth, I remember that we're probably being watched. Without really meaning to, I glance around the garden as if one of the Avoxes are going to come out wielding electric spears with cables. "But you have to admit, the food's prime." That wasn't really necessary, but somehow, saying that make me feel a little better about the situation. Katniss keeps quiet and I can tell that she's said all she's going to say on the subject. I'm not going to press her any further.

"It's getting chilly. We better go in." As I say this, I can feel her relief affecting the atmosphere of the rooftop. She can't wait to get away from me. I try as hard as I can, but I can't help but let this affect me. I'm going to die for her, and she can't be bothered to spend five minutes in my company. Gale would probably throw her to the wolves to keep himself alive. Gale. The very thought of him throws me back into a red rage filled with envy. As we reach the dome, I come to the conclusion that if I don't ask now, I'll spend the rest of my short life wondering. "Your friend Gale." I say curtly, and Katniss immediately looks at me. "He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" I already know the answer to this, but I can't just ask her if she loves him. Then I'd never hear the truth.

"Yes. Do you know him?" Katniss has remained at the top of the stairs, and is looking at me quizzically. She truly has no idea.

"Not really. I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something." I pause and swallow, and prepare myself to hear the worst. There is no doubt in my mind that I'm about to get my heart broken, but I have to know. I have to know. "You favor each other."

"No, we're not related," She says this carefully, and she's still looking at me like I'm crazy for wondering. _So she does love him,_ I think with despondency, and I struggle to keep my face clear of emotion. Before I can stop myself, I can see him in the Justice Building, holding her in his arms, kissing her cheek, whispering sweet good-byes in her ear before the Peacekeepers pull him away. Before I'm even aware of it, I'm blurting out the question behind this mental image.

"Did he come to say good-bye to you?"

"Yes," She answers casually, "So did your father. He brought me cookies." Before I can wallow in misery about Gale, something pulls me up short. My father visited Katniss? He brought her cookies? I didn't get any cookies. But it wasn't like I would have enjoyed them.

"Really?" I say, jumping gladly on the change of subject. "Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys." We start heading down the stairs. As we walk down the hall, I try to think of something to say to keep the conversation going. "He knew your mother when they were kids." Katniss doesn't respond for a long while. I have a feeling she's never once discussed my father with her mother.

"Oh, yes." She says offhandedly, "She grew up in town." I don't know what to say either. All too soon, we get to her door, and she's taking off my jacket. She hands it back to me with a small smile on her face. "See you in the morning then," She says pleasantly, and I force myself to smile back at her.

"See you," I say, and cross the hall into my room. And now, now that she's gone, I can let my anger fester all I want. I am very, _very_ careful not to slam my door, because she can't know that I'm upset. But once I'm in my room that changes entirely. Without thinking at all, I storm into my bathroom, strip off my clothing, and closet myself in the shower. What I need right now is relief and hot water. But I feel even further dismay as I turn to the complex touch-screen dial that's in place of the simplistic one that was there on the train.

"How the _hell_ am I supposed to get clean?" I growl, and for the first time in a long time, I let myself swear. A more extensive string of curses come flying out of my mouth as I start messing with the buttons, and a million different things start happening at once. Hot and cold water bursts at me from the ceiling, walls, and even the floor. There's fifty different colored soaps that come splattering at me, and sweet-smelling bubbles begin floating around the shower. If it was just one type of soap, it wouldn't be that bad, but with countless numbers of them all intent on covering my body, the aroma is sickening. Finally, I just give up, scream the worst word I know, flatten my palms against the panel, and press every button in sight. The shower that follows could easily be called the worst in my life.

Seeing as it's my second one, that's not really saying much. But by the time the water stops jetting at me, the soap stops flying, and the smells have cleared the air, I'm sure that my skin is raw. I am red, puffy, wrinkly, and there have been so many different oils and solutions blasted at my skin I only smell horrible. I stand naked in the shower for a long, long, time. In fact, when I wake up a few hours clothed in silk pajamas and tucked into bed, I'm not even sure how I got here. But does it matter? Nothing really matters, not now. The girl I'm in love with looks at me and sees Gale Hawthorne. The baker's son could never compete with a hunter. Even if I love her in a way he'll never be able to. I lie awake in bed until dawn, unable to console myself in any way.

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	13. Chapter 13

As dawn breaks through my window, flooding my blood-red room with light, I breathe a ragged, heavy, sigh. No, there were no nightmares, but my mind was not kind to me last night. Gale and Katniss dominated my thoughts, destroying and shattering any false hope I had given myself. There is no way that Katniss loves me, not when she has Gale on the mind. My love for her, as it always has been, is unrequited. I don't know why I told myself that she could possible accept me. You'd think that I would have learned from my father's mistakes, but no. I fell for an Everdeen, and I fell hard. And now, in the face of death, I'm not sure I'll be able to pick the pieces up in time to save her. Today is the first day of training. There will be three days of training in total, and then an interview in front of all in Panem. After that, I will be launched head first into an arena, and I will be fighting to protect a girl who doesn't care about me at all. To her, I am simply an obstacle between her and home. To Katniss, I am an obstacle between her and Gale. If she has to, she will kill me, and she will feel more remorse. I would rather die than see her dead.

Perhaps it would be better if she killed me as soon as she could. With a few words, she's already ripped my heart out.

And yet, I _still_ love her. I still want her to live. There seems to be no way out of this. I stare up at the ceiling, searching for an answer that I'm never going to fine. But I have no other choice. Even if she hates me, even if she's dreaming about Gale, and even if she's the one who shoots the arrow into my heart, I will make sure that she gets out of the arena. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage that, but there has to be a way. _First,_ I tell myself, _ I have to get to know the competition. _And I'm not going to get to know any more about the Careers laying here in bed. I have to face Haymitch eventually.

I throw the thick, crimson duvet back, and pull myself out of bed. The creamy silk feels good against my skin, and I take a moment to examine my hands and see just how much damage last night's shower has done. I'm still my normal pale color, so I'm guessing that it wasn't that bad. And even if it was a terrible time, I am extraordinarily clean. I don't think I was even this clean after my prep team was done with me. Maybe I should press all the buttons again the next time I take a shower. I allow myself to take amusement in what happened last night, and I move towards the closet with a smirk on my face. If I don't work on smiling now, there's no way I'll be able to do it when I see Katniss this morning. I wonder if she heard me swearing last night. If she did, she'd probably just think that I'm homesick, or something. She has no idea how I feel.

As I prepare myself for the onslaught of technology that is my closet, I'm surprised to see that an outfit has already been laid out for me. Coal black pants that look like they're nearly as tight as my costume, a looser looking red tunic, and simple leather shoes. I wonder why my clothing has been laid out for me, and why I can't pick something else, and then I realize that this is probably so I'm keeping into our fiery theme. Red shirt for fire, dark pants for coal. Simple enough, but it's pretty creative of Portia. I wonder if Katniss will be wearing yellow and orange.

I regretfully slip off the pajamas, and pull on the rougher fabric that has been laid out from me. Surprisingly, everything seems to fit perfectly. The odd thing is, I don't remember anyone measuring me. But how much does that matter in the big scheme of things? I push that thought from my mind as I run a hand through my hair. I have way too much to be worrying about to be thinking about why my clothes fit.

I glance at the clock on my wall. The numbers are shaped a little differently, but I can still tell that I'm probably a little late for breakfast. But Effie hasn't come banging on my door, so I guess that there isn't a specific time that I have to be there. I might as well go now and get this over with. I spend a minute or so working on keeping a smile plastered on my face, and then I head into the dining room for breakfast. Katniss is the only one sitting at the table, and she's currently stuffing her face with a mountain of food. I follow suit and load up my plate, and then I take a seat across from her. It's probably a smart idea to eat all we can as long as there's food here, but I'm not really feeling like eating at the moment. I've got too much on my mind. I pointlessly chase my food around with my fork for a while, and as soon as I get a tiny piece of egg in my mouth, Haymitch joins us at the table. He's still looking remarkably clean and sober, but I try to avoid his gaze too. It's been a day now, but I'm not sure if he holds a grudge or not.

People from the Seam all seem to be like each other, believing there are debts where there are not any, and they are incredibly touchy about their pride. At least, that's how most of our customers from the Seam are. Unfortunately for me, Haymitch also has the trademark grey eyes and dark hair. Although, his hair is a peppered with grey from old age, it's easy to see that he's from the Seam. Years of misery and drinking probably have not helped his temper. I can only hope he doesn't instruct a Gamemaker to kill me as soon as I get into the arena. At least I know he'll take care of Katniss instead of me. After nearly a quarter of an hour, Haymitch and Katniss have finally eaten all they can hold, Haymitch finishing a final platter of stew a matter of seconds after Katniss pushes her now empty plate back. My mentor takes a long swig from a flask – no doubt, filled with wine – and then settles himself on the table in an eerily predatory way.

"So let's get down to business." He says in a firm voice, and for the first time, I think he's completely sober. "Training. First off, if you like, I'll coach you separately. Decide now."

"Why would you coach us separately?" Asks Katniss, and for the first time today, I allow myself to look at her. She's wearing the same thing that I am.

"Say if you have a secret skill you might not want the other to know about," explains Haymitch, and he sounds exasperated.

"I don't have any secret skills." I say, "And I already know what yours is, right? I mean, I've eaten enough of your squirrels."

"You can coach us together." Says Katniss firmly, and I'm not sure if she's happy about me knowing or not. Probably not, knowing her motive.

"All right, so give me some idea of what you can do," says Haymitch, watching us both with a critical eye. When he glances at me, I'm not surprised to see that the steely glare in his eyes has not changed a bit. He's still mad at me.

"I can't do anything," I say dryly, "Unless you count baking bread."

"Sorry, I don't." He snaps, and then turns his gaze from me to her. Unlike me, she just looks angry with him, much less afraid. "Katniss. I already know you're handy with a knife."

"Not really," she clarifies, "But I can hunt with a bow and arrow."

"And you're good?" He asks critically. There is a long pause while Katniss considers her answer, even though she shouldn't have to think about this one at all. I've eaten her meat before. I don't think anyone else in the entire District can shoot like she can. _Maybe Gale –_ I think, but I stop there before I allow myself to be consumed by jealously again. I can't let that happen now, especially in front of Haymitch. He'll make my life hell for that night on the train, and I don't need to hand him any more weapons to use against me.

"I'm all right." She says humbly, for probably the first time in her life. Katniss does not strike me as a humble person, and since the answers to these questions could end up effecting whether she lives or dies in the arena, now is definitely not the best time to be conservative.

"She's excellent," I cut in, "My father buys her squirrels. He always comments on how the arrows never pierce the body. She hits every one in the eye. It's the same with the rabbits she sells to the butcher. She can even bring down deer."

"What are you doing?" She asks me, glaring at me suspiciously.

"What are _you_ doing?" I counter, "If he's going to help you, he has to know what you're capable of. Don't underrate yourself."

"What about you?" She snaps back, "I've seen you in the market. You can lift hundred pound bags of flour. Tell him that. That's not nothing." So when she's not off kissing Gale in a cave, she's watching me in the market place? For some reason, that irritates me even more than her just kissing Gale.

"Yes," I say sarcastically. "And I'm sure the arena will be full of bags of flour for me to chuck at people. It's not like being able to use a weapon. You know it isn't." Katniss, however, seems to be determined to makes sure that the focus stays on me.

"He can wrestle." She tells Haymitch matter-of-factly, "He came in second in our school competition last year, only after his brother." Why does she remember that? Why does she even care? Why would Katniss be looking at me when she has Gale? She doesn't make any sense.

"What use is that?" I snap at her, "How many times have you seen someone wrestle someone to death?"

"There's always hand-to-hand combat. All you need is to come up with a knife and you'll at least stand a chance." She says, and her voice begins rising in hysteria. "If I get jumped, I'm dead!" What does _she_ have to worry about? If Katniss just keeps herself up in a tree for the entire time, no one will be able to climb up after her! She'll be fine! It's not like she should be all that worried about dying in the arena.

"But you won't!" I say, near shouting, "You'll be living up in some tree eating raw squirrels and picking off people with arrows." I've never had a chance at winning these Games. Not even my own mother thinks I can do it. "You know what my mother said to me when she came to say good-bye?" I ask, and Katniss only seems to become more aggravated by the acid in my voice. "As if to cheer me up, she says maybe District Twelve will have a winner this year. Then I realized, she didn't mean me, she meant you!"

"Oh she meant you," Katniss waves her hand dismissively, as if I'm some kind of fool. I know _exactly_ what my mother meant, and I don't need anyone telling me that I'm deaf as well as worthless.

"She said, 'She's a survivor, that one.' _She_ is." As the reality of what I just said seems to sink in, I think I can see something in Katniss' expression; something that I don't want. There's… Sympathy. She's eleven years too late.

"But only because someone helped me," She says softly. The small favor I gave her was nearly five years ago. Two purposely burnt loaves of bread that cost me a bruise on my face. She never said thank you. I glance down at the roll in her hand, and I can tell that we're thinking of the same thing. I suppose that this is as close as an acknowledgment of the incident that I'm going to get. I shrug.

"People will help you in the arena," I say, "They'll be tripping over each other to sponsor you."

"No more than you." She says firmly. I look over at Haymitch, and I see dark amusement written all over his face. I glare, roll my eyes, and do my best to ignore Katniss.

"Shehas no idea," I mutter, "The effect she can have." I can tell that Haymitch is about to laugh, or blurt out something that shouldn't be said, so I turn my gaze from him too. Instead, I look down at the table, and try to appear bored. I run my fingers along the wood absent-mindedly, just waiting for one of them to speak again.

"Well, then." Says Haymitch, and his voice is dripping with smugness. "Well, well, well. Katniss, there's no guarantee there'll be bows and arrows in the arena, but during your private session with the Gamemakers, show them what you can do. Until then, stay clear of archery. Are you any good at trapping?"

"I know a few basic snares," She snaps, and begins picking her roll to pieces.

"That may be significant in terms of food." He say, and then turns his gaze to me. "And Peeta, she's right, never underestimate strength in the arena. Very often, physical power tilts the advantage to the player. In the Training Center, they will have weights, but don't reveal how much you can lift in front of the other tributes. The plan's the same for you both. You go to group training. Spend the time trying to learn something you don't know. Throw a spear. Swing a mace. Save showing what you're best at until your private sessions. Are we clear?" I just nod, because I don't really trust myself to say anything.

"One last thing. In public, I want you by each other's side every minute."

"But-"

"I –"

Haymitch slams his fist on the table, effectively shutting us both up. "Every minute!" He yells, "It's not open for discussion! You agreed to do as I said! You will be together, and you will appear amiable to each other. Now get out. Meet Effie at the elevator at ten for training." I try not to snarl at him as I pull myself up out of my chair. I have to spend every minute with her, all the while sure that she's thinking of Gale. I have to act like she's my best friend, and that what she's thinking doesn't bother me in the least.

I try to keep myself under control as I head back to my room, and I try to ignore the fact that Katniss is acting like she openly despises me. While I shut my door quietly, and allow myself to slip silently into my misery, Katniss slams her door with such force that the walls seem to shake.

I spend the half hour I have sitting on my bed, wracking my brains. We'll be meeting the other tributes today – the people that have to die for Katniss to survive. I try to think back to the reapings we saw on the train, and I try to remember which tributes I was worried about. Only the boys from 2 and 11 come to mind, but they're enough as it is. I remember the little girl from 11 too, and I realize that if I want Katniss to get home, she's going to have to die too. A twelve year old should not be made to face the horrors of the Hunger Games. Really, none of us should have to. But it's the younger ones that anger me especially. From the moment they're reaped, they're pretty much dead. Primrose was lucky that she had Katniss to step up for her.

I hope that the girl from 11 dies a quick, painless death.

Before I know it, it's ten. That means it's time to meat Effie at the elevator. I straighten my shirt, tug the tight fabric of my pants a little looser, and then head out. When I see Effie, she looks panicky and incredibly stressed out. She's probably worried that we'll be late. She keeps muttering under her breath, and checking a little device on her wrist. I don't bother asking what it is.

Katniss shows up within a few minutes, and Effie quickly shoves us into the crystal elevator. Today, I don't bother looking out at the city below. I have too much on my mind. As we reach the bottom level of the Training Center, the doors slide open to reveal a giant gymnasium. I glance around, taking in the various stations and weapons on the walls. All of them look to be brutally sharpened. No wonder we aren't allowed to practice together.

In the center of the room, all of the tributes from the other Districts are clumped together in a tight circle. They all have cloth squares with District numbers in bold numbers pinned to their backs. I keep still a male Avox pins something on my back, and no doubt, it's a square with a black 12. I am the boy from the coal mining District, and I have no other name, not any more.

I look around at my competition, and I know from the start that I'm in trouble. The Careers look menacingly powerful as they always do, but in person, I am even more frightened. Here, I can't hide behind one of Portia's costumes and win over the crowd. In the Training Center, I have to depend on talent alone. Too bad baking bread and icing cakes won't do me any good. Quietly, Katniss and I file in beside all of the other tributes, and I force myself to remain calm. I keep glancing around the room, meeting the eyes of my rivals. I ignore the lower Districts for the most part, keeping my eyes on the Careers. I don't like what I see. Every one of them looks just as determined to live as Katniss does. Every one of them sees their names up in lights, and every one of them sees themselves as the winner of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games.

This is not going to be easy.

I hardly pay attention as a woman named Atala explains how things will be run down here. I keep my eyes on the Careers. I can already tell that they have it out for District 12. Our fiery entrance stole the attention they should have rightfully gotten. And they want revenge.

Atala lets us go, telling us we can begin working, and all six of the Careers head towards the deadliest-looking weapons in the Training Center. The tributes from 4 start throwing spears and tridents at targets, hitting dead center every time. The girl from District 2 starts launching little knives at a target from nearly twenty feet away. The blades dig into the center of the circular red-painted target every time with a heavy _thunk._ I have a terrible feeling that she's imaging digging her knives into the tributes of District 12. I watch, mesmerized in her terrible strength for a few moments, and then I realize that Katniss and I are the only ones standing in the middle of the room. I gently nudge her arm, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Where would you like to start?" I ask, and she looks flatly at me.

"I suppose we tie some knots," She says, looking at the only empty station.

"Right you are," I say, and we head off towards the corner of the room. The trainer looks awfully excited to see us, and I have the feeling that not many tributes ever come over here. After all, what use are knots when you could be trying to learn to use a weapon while you can? I can't see much value in them either, but I learn the new snares an knots right along Katniss, and I do my best to appear friendly around her. The trainer seems to appreciate my enthusiasm though, and I feel like I can at least get this much right. Maybe she'll even feel regretful when I die. After an hour of learning how to tie a knot that will leave a person dangling upside down from a tree, we move onto camouflage. The instructor seems just as happy to see us. I grin forcefully, but as he begins walking us shades and highlighting colors to resemble the patterns of leaves, I realize that this is just like frosting cakes. I delve into the tasks, easily gaining praise.

It seems that years of working in the bakery will be of some help after all. Katniss is alright at camouflage, but she's pretty much just squirting paint on her arm and swirling it around on her skin. There's a very small chance that someone would mistake her for nature while in the arena.

I notice that she's looking distastefully on the pattern on my arm, and I wonder if she's jealous.

"I do the cakes," I say, and that should be a good enough explanation. At one point, she will have seen the cakes in the bakery window. She trades often enough with my father.

"The cakes?" She asks absently, "What cakes?" I follow her gaze, and I can see that she's watching the boy from 2 slaughter a dummy.

"At home." I clarify, and she turns back to me. "The iced ones, for the bakery." I see recognition in her eyes, and she suddenly becomes bitter.

"It's lovely." She snaps, "If only you could frost someone to death." I guess she didn't like the cakes.

"Don't be so superior," I say, finally getting fed up with her, "You can never tell what you'll find in the arena. Say it's actually a gigantic cake –"

"Say we move on." She says darkly, and I fall silent. This conversation pretty much paints the atmosphere for the next three days. Begrudgingly, we follow Haymitch's orders and do everything together. Katniss is surly, and it's nearly impossible to get a conversation out of her. I have to try desperately to get her to be civil to me, and I constantly find myself bending over backwards to keep her satisfied. I try to bring up home, thinking that she'd be happier speaking about something other than the Games, and immediately shut down. I try to bring up the Games, thinking that she'd be feeling more confident about going in now that we're a little better prepared, and she snaps at me. One day, at a loss of what else to say, I start talking about bread. For the first time, she seems slightly interested in what I'm saying. I take advantage of that and run with it.

I take a basket of bread from the center of the table and dump the contents of it out on the tablecloth. The round rolls of bread bounce and leave trails of crumbs in their wake, but I'm able to gather them all up in the center. As I start separating the crumbly white Capitol bread from the darker, grain breads of the Districts, I notice that the little girl from 11 is watching me. She's interested too. As I start off with District 1, pointing out the similarities of the grain to that of District 2, I make sure to speak loudly enough for her to hear me too. As I glance over at her again, I see that her dark eyes are shining with hunger. But she's not hungry for food; she's hungry for knowledge. I continue my lecture all the way up to District 12, surreptitiously making sure that the little girl can hear me. I think her name is Rue. As I finished, the dark skinned girl turns back to her meal, quickly devouring everything that's put in front of her. I have to struggle not to smile.

"And there you have it," I say, carefully placing all the bread back in the basket. I doubt anyone will want to eat it now that I've gotten my dirty barbaric hands all over it, but it doesn't really matter. There's plenty of bread in the Training Center.

"You certainly know a lot," Says Katniss, and I can tell that she's struggling to keep up with the conversation. I wish for the hundredth time that Haymitch had not ordered us to do this. It's putting way too much strain on both of us, and I'm sure that by the time we're in the arena, Katniss will be ready to kill me – whether she knows I'm working to keep her alive or not.

"Only about bread." I say dryly. "Okay, laugh as if I've said something funny. I manage to laugh loudly, and I slam my fist down on the table in make-believe mirth. Katniss laughs half-heartedly, and I have trouble believing that she's even trying.

"All right." I say, "I'll keep smiling pleasantly, and you talk." She doesn't look happy about having to talk, but I can't do this all on my own.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I was chased by a bear?" She asks lightly. I shake my head.

"No, but it sounds fascinating," I say. Katniss launches into her story, and I try my best to look interested. As I let out a fake bellow of laughed, and Katniss grins cheekily at me, I realize that with every fake smile and forced story, I'm driving the girl on fire further and further away from me.

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	14. Chapter 14

By the second day, it's easy to see that tempers are running high. Effie and Haymitch make us recite everything to them over dinner, and without Cinna and Portia there, it's ugly. However, instead of Effie and Haymitch snapping at each other, it seems they've made some kind of pact to make sure we're ready for the Games; and that means that the full force of their irritation at each other is directed at Katniss and me. I try to remain pleasant, accepting their harsh help with all the grace I can, and I keep telling myself that they're doing it because they care. Probably more because Effie wants money and Haymitch just wants to be able to drink again, but it's better than no help at all. Katniss, however, is broody, surly, and quite frankly, childish. She snaps, glowers, and shoves all she can in her mouth just to annoy Effie. It was different that night on the train because Effie was being ridiculous. But now that our escort is actually trying to help us, it's unnecessary, and it bugs me. But I don't say anything. I concentrate on trying to think of a way to get Katniss out of the arena.

We spend the whole day down in the Training Center again, and the only thing different is that the little girl from District 11 is following us around. Katniss ignores her entirely, but from time to time, I'll smile at her. Rue smiles back nervously, as if she's afraid that I'm going to kill her. If I were a twelve year old, and a burly sixteen year old tribute was smiling at me a few days before the Hunger Games, I'd be worried too. I really hope that she dies a quick death. I hope that I'm not the one who has to kill her.

At one point, I tell Katniss that Rue is following us, but I only get snapped at. Even though the little girl continues to follow us, I don't bring her up again. Katniss doesn't seem to be too eager to talk about a girl who's so eerily like Primrose. I really don't blame her. By the time we're excused from training to go back to our floors, Katniss is insufferable. She's refused to speak to me at lunch, and she keeps glaring at me like I'm the one who put Rue in the reaping. Or like I'm the one who had Effie pull Primrose's name for the reaping. Or even, that it's my fault that she had to leave Gale.

If she can't pretend to be pleasant to me for a few short hours, and refuses to follow Haymitch orders, it's going to be difficult to keep her alive. Dinner that evening seems to match Katniss' mood perfectly. Effie and Haymitch ask every question they can think of, from how many times the girl from 2 threw a knife at a target, to how much weight the boy from 11 can lift. When neither of us can produce the answers they want, we both earn rough treatment from Haymitch. He shouts at us for a full five minutes, and by the time Effie pipes in about paying more attention, I'm ready to fling my plate at the wall and stalk off to my room. But I don't. I know that they're just trying to help.

Finally, finally, Haymitch tells us to get out and get some sleep. Katniss and I scramble away from the table as quickly as we can, neither of us wanting to be caught in another lecture. As we head down the hall, I start thinking about how much easier Haymitch was to deal with when he was drunk. At least then, he was too incoherent to anything. Now, with withdrawals and whatever other problems a middle-aged, paunchy District Victor can have, he's nearly unbearable.

"Someone needs to get Haymitch a drink," I mutter, not really talking to anyone. A moment too late, I realize that Katniss is here.

"Don't." She says, and she sounds exasperated. "Don't let's pretend when there's no one around." I stop, and look at her. I'm met with icy cold insensitivity. I sigh.

"All right, Katniss." She turns and leaves me alone in the hallway. I swear softly, and then go into my own room. I lock myself in the shower and burn away my anger with hot, steaming water.

The third day of training is a great deal less stressful. Today, we will be called in for private sessions with the Gamemakers to be judged. Because the audience can't see what happens in the Training Center, we're each given a score by the Gamemakers, judging on how well we perform for them. Twelve being the best, and one being the worst. I don't think anyone has ever gotten a twelve for a training score before, but it's the number that all the Careers aim for. Personally, I'm hoping for at least a six, so that way I'll be able snag at least a few sponsors. The more people I have helping 'me', the better for Katniss.

Katniss and I spend the morning working with spears, throwing them at some of the dummies. I have a horrible aim, but Katniss has been able to make the spear stick a few times. Around lunch time, the purple-robed Gamemakers begin calling the tributes in. First goes the lean boy from District 1, and his blonde counterpart follows. I switch to knife throwing as the tributes from 2 disappear, but I soon lose interest. Katniss and I chat politely as the time ticks by, but we fall silent as tiny Rue is called. With no one around, there isn't any reason to talk.

I stare at the floor as I sit on one of the benches, waiting for my name to be called. Haymitch told me to throw the weights around, but I have no idea how that's going to impress any of them. That's not any fun to look at, and unless I'm able to smash a hole in the wall, it's not going to be impressive at all. Katniss can shoot anything she wants, dead center, and she's likely to score at least a ten. Unless I manage to break something with sheer force, I'm probably going to get a four.

I wonder what my mother will have to say about that.

I come up with various responses she could have, the worst of them going after my cat in a blind rage. But I have a feeling that Sesame is already dead, so I'm not sure why that bothers me. My father might have stepped in and saved her though, but I can't be sure. He doesn't like to cross his wife. Not that anyone likes to cross the baker's wife. I'm not even sure if she has any friends.

I lose myself in my imagination, trying to keep from thinking about my cat dying an awful, horrible death. I wonder if I'll die the same way I think my cat did. The girl from 2 is very handy with knives. I wouldn't be surprised if I got my throat slit on opening day.

I nearly jump when my name is called. Quickly, I shake my head, as if that can clear my thoughts, and I push myself up off the bench. I take a deep breath as I head towards the door, and I try to calm myself. I've got to find a way to impress the Gamemakers, and it needs to be quick. I'm nearly to the door when Katniss calls after me.

"Remember what Haymitch said about being sure to throw the weights," she says, and I'm surprised. I thought she didn't want to speak to me unless there was someone there to watch. I pause, keeping my hand on the brass doorknob, and wrack my brains for a piece of parting advice as well.

"Thanks. I will," I say. "You… Shoot straight." I don't wait for the snarky response I'm sure to get.

As I step into the giant room with the raised seats filled with my judges, I know that that something is wrong. Frist, my ears are flooded with off-key singing. Secondly, I can see that the Gamemakers aren't looking at me, at all. They're looking to each other, sloshing around cups that can only be filled with wine. There are two rows of Gamemakers, ten robed people to a table, and all twenty of them seem to be preoccupied with something other than me. I stand at the doorway for a few moments, unsure of what to do. I consider clearing my throat, but as a lowly tribute, it isn't my place to be telling the Gamemakers what they should be doing or what they should be looking at.

I do the only thing that I can do. I head over to the weights, and select one of the heavy iron balls. I suppose that it weighs a great deal, because I've seen the boy from 11 pick it up once or twice. Gently, I prod it with my foot, and I try to see if I can pick it up or not. It doesn't budge. I probably shouldn't try that one first. I move around to another strange looking contraption, and I see a tiny "100" printed on it. I can lift 100 pounds, easily. I pick it up, wincing as the metal clashes on metal, and lift it as high as I dare. A few of the Gamemakers are looking at me, and I know that this is my one shot to impress them.

I chuck the weight as far as I can.

It launches a good ten feet across the room, and the few that are watching me seem impressed. Encouraged, I move onto the next weight up, and chuck it too. It doesn't go quite as far, but seeing as it weighs more, I'm not really concerned. I keep throwing all the weights I think I can manage, and nearly ten minutes later, I've broken out into a sweat. But I don't dare stop before I'm instructed to. I've got to keep going. If I want to impress any of these people, I need to earn their respect. That means I've got to be a good little tribute, and do exactly as I'm told.

Finally, I've run out of things in my weight range to throw, and I come back to the iron weight ball. I prod it with my foot, and as I roll it over, I can see a tiny "150" somehow etched onto the surface. I don't think I've ever tried lifting that much before. But, if I want to impress, I've got to try new things. I squat down to my knees, grasp the ball in a tight embrace, and try to stand myself back up. It is not easy. Blood rushes to my face, and I begin panting. I try holding my breath, as if that will make this any easier. I can see that I'm now commanding the attention of nearly half of the Gamemakers, and if I want to make an impression, the time is now. With al my might, I chuck the ball as far as I can.

It nearly lands on my foot.

I jerk sideways to avoid getting my foot crushed, and I hear a few of the Gamemakers bark with laughter. My face turns scarlet with shame, and I force myself to smile at them. I've got to play the part of the good tribute.

"We have seen enough." Says one of them in a monotone, "You may go, Peeta Mellark." I bow stiffly, and walk quickly out of the room. I take the back door, seeing as everyone else has done so, and quickly shut myself in the elevator. I can't believe I just nearly broke my foot. No doubt, my score has dropped dramatically. But does it really matter? That just means more attention for Katniss. I jam the 12 button, and silently ride up to the top floor.

When I get to the sitting room, I'm comforted by the fact that the stylists will be joining us for dinner. At least tonight, Katniss and I won't be badgered by Effie and Haymitch. At least, I hope that they'll have the decency to engage in actual conversation with the other adults and leave us alone. As I approach the table, Portia turns away from Effie in mid-sentence and grins at me.

"So," she says warmly, "How'd it go?" I smile at her, and I suddenly feel much better about nearly dropping the weight on my foot. It's not like that will change the fact I was able to throw some of the other weights around, right?

"I didn't know I was allowed to talk about it." I say superiorly, and I take a seat by my stylist on one of the squishy couches. She immediately pops me on the back of the head.

"Not to the public, but we aren't exactly all of Panem." I roll my eyes, and Cinna smiles.

"Well," I start, but I'm almost immediately cut off by Effie.

"Why don't we wait for Katniss?" She asks brightly, her fat cheeks puffed out into a feigned smile. "I think it would be best if you both told us at once."

"Alright." I say, because I'm not really in the mood to get into a 'discussion' with Effie. Portia doesn't ask after the private session after that, and I assume that she feels the same way that I do. The adults continue talking about what we're going to be wearing for the interviews, but I hardly pay any attention. I'm starting to get really hungry. I hope that Katniss hurries up, so that we can eat. By now, I'm sure that every other tribute has started dinner. District 1 has probably already finished. I guess that's part of being the lowest District: always being slated last for everything.

I look around the Avoxes, searching for the red-headed one that Katniss told me about a few nights ago. At the time, I had been too consumed with jealously towards Gale to really pay attention, but now I wish that I had. It seemed to genuinely bother her, and I suppose that if I had paid better attention that I would have been able to offer her the correct amount of sympathy. Maybe, if I had done so, she wouldn't be as bitter as she is now.

Just then, I hear the dining room crash open behind me, the doors banging off the wall, and I jump. I look backwards, and I see Katniss flying from the room.

"Katniss!" calls Haymitch, quickly standing from the couch. There's genuine concern in his voice; that's the last thing I expected from him.

"Katniss?" says Cinna, in a near echo of Haymitch. I stare after her as she runs down the hall, her braid swishing behind her. Haymitch sighs in exasperation, rolls his eyes to the ceiling, and walks after her.

"Oh dear," chirps Effie, "I'd better go see what's wrong." She leaps up and follows Haymitch out of the door. Cinna and Portia say nothing. I glance at them, trying to figure out what I should be thinking. Cinna looks thoughtful, and Portia looks worried. I decide to side with Cinna, seeing as that's far more comfortable than worrying about what could have gone wrong. But, as hard as I try, worries creep into my thoughts. What could have upset Katniss that badly? It isn't like her to run away. She told me herself that she once challenged a bear. Sure, running away from the bear would only be common sense, but this is very different. Something had to go very wrong for her to react like this.

_What if she just ruined her chance of survival? _ I ask myself, and my stomach drops. I suddenly feel queasy. By the time Haymitch and Effie come back into the room, I feel as if I'm going to empty the contents of my stomach. Haymitch suggests that we start dinner, and we all follow him like a troupe of ducklings to the dinner table. There, the adults start a light conversation about the weather, but I'm not paying attention.

"Well," says Effie just as dinner is being served, "I better go get Katniss." I watch her as she waddles out of the room, completely ignoring my food.

A few minutes later, she comes back alone, and I worry that Katniss won't eat. But then I remember that she can get food in her room if she wants, and I doubt that she'll be skipping a meal. She has enough sense to know that she needs to eat as much as she can before we get into the arena.

Effie joins back into the conversation with ease, and I figure that even if Katniss isn't coming, I need to eat as well. I begin shoveling pork and mashed potatoes into my mouth. Portia _tsks_ distastefully, and I roll my eyes. Effie doesn't look pleased either, but at this point, I really don't care. I begin slurping some of my soup nosily, and Portia actually laughs. I grin. After a few minutes of me eating silently and the adults talking, Katniss joins us at the table. No one else seems to notice that she's arrived. I nearly open my mouth to ask what happened, but I deicide otherwise. I know why no one else has said anything before me. One look at her face tells me all that I need to know.

Her skin is red and splotchy, and her eyes are red. She's been crying. Whatever happened was not good. I watch her, unsure of what to think. She begins sipping soup, not looking anywhere but at her bowl. Then, she does meet my gaze, but only shakes her head. _This can't be good. _

"Okay, enough small talk," says Haymitch, just as Avoxes bring over the main course of dinner. He looks from me to Katniss, and I have a feeling that we're in trouble. He can't be pleased by Katniss' reaction. "Just how bad were you today?" Katniss keeps looking at her soup, and I know that if I don't say anything, Haymitch is going to force it out of her.

"I don't know that it mattered," I say while picking a piece of pork off my plate. "By the time I showed up, no one even bothered to look at me. They were singing some kind of drinking song, I think. So, I threw around some heavy objects until they told me I could go." Haymitch nods in satisfaction and then turns to Katniss.

"And you, sweetheart?" He asks, with sarcasm lacing his voice. I can see Katniss tense, and I know that Haymitch's approach probably wasn't the best.

"I shot an arrow at the Gamemakers." She snaps, and the spoon clatters out of Effie's hand. Everyone stops eating. Cinna, Portia, Effie, and Haymitch are all staring at Katniss. I immediately panic. She's going to get herself killed with that impulsiveness. No amount of help or money behind her can save her in the arena, not when twenty angry Gamemakers want revenge. She'll be dead before any of us can reach the Cornucopia.

"You what?" asks Effie, clearly horrified.

"I shot an arrow at them. Not exactly at them," she stammers, "In their direction. It's like Peeta said, I was shooting and they were ignoring me and I just… I just lost my head, so I shot an apple out of their stupid roast pig's mouth!" No one seems to know what to say after this. I stare at Katniss, unable to believe that she would do such a stupid thing.

"And what did they say?" Asks Cinna in a careful, controlled voice.

"Nothing. Or I don't know." She says, "I walked out after that."

"Without being dismissed?" The horror in Effie's voice has been exponentially increased.

"I dismissed myself," Katniss snarls, clearly not happy with the reaction that she got. We all sit in silence for a moment, while I try to wrap my brain around what just happened.

"Well, that's that." Says Haymitch lightly, and he begins to butter a roll. He doesn't seem to be all that bothered the situation.

"Do you think they'll arrest me?" She asks, and I'm wondering the same thing.

"Doubt it," he says while stuffing mashed potatoes in his mouth. "You'd be a pain to replace at this stage."

"What about my family? Will they punish them?" At this point, I'm feeling a lot better about the whole situation, so I turn my attention back to my food. I have a feeling that if they won't hurt Katniss that they won't hurt Primrose or Mrs. Everdeen. If she's safe then they're safe.

"Don't think so," he says with his mouth full. "Wouldn't make much sense. See, they'd have to reveal what happened in the Training Center for it to have any worthwhile effect on the population. People would need to know what you did. But they can't since it's a secret, so it'd be a waste of effort. More than likely, they'll just make your life hell in the arena." I laugh softly.

"Well, they've already promised to do that to us anyways," I say, and I pop a piece of pork into my mouth.

"Very true," says Haymitch, and Katniss seems to relax. He picks at a piece of pork with his fingers, and Effie frowns. He notices this, and just to spite her, he dunks it in his wine glass. Her glare darkens. "What were their faces like?" And for the first time this evening, Katniss smiles.

"Shocked. Terrified. Uh, ridiculous, some of them. One man tripped backwards into a bowl of punch." Haymitch starts laughing so hard that he nearly spits out his wine, and we all can't help but join in. Even though Effie is quiet, she's trying her best to suppress a smile.

"Well it serves them right. It's their job to pay attention to you. And just because you come from District Twelve is no excuse to ignore you." After she says this, Effie's beady little eyes dart around the room, and she apologizes to no one in particular. "I'm sorry, but that's what I think." Maybe we really are under surveillance.

"I'll get a very bad score," Katniss says lightly, and I can tell that she doesn't really care what her score is. She seems happy that no harm was done. I'm nearly as relieved as she is.

"Scores only matter if they're very good, no one pays attention to the mediocre ones. For all they know, you could be hiding your talents to get a low score on purpose." Says Portia, "People use that strategy." She's right. I remember a few years back, there was a girl named Johanna Mason who did that. She was weepy, weak, and everyone was sure that she was going to die on opening day. After hiding behind a mask for nearly two weeks, it came out that she was a ruthless killer. By the time the other tributes were able to figure this out, it was far too late. As much as I hate myself for saying it that was one only entertaining Hunger Games I've ever seen. Not because of the ruthless killing or anything, but because of just how smart she was. Johanna Mason found a way to trick the Capitol. She literally beat them at their own game. I respect her for that, even if she's a cold-blooded killer.

"I hope that's how people interpret the four I'll probably get," I say, "If that. Really, is anything less impressive than watching a person pick up a heavy ball and throw it a couple of yards. One almost landed on my foot."

Portia laughs at me. I glower at her for a moment, and then I remember that I have food on my plate. Once we've all finished eating, Effie herds us into the sitting room to see our scores. As the seal of the Capitol appears on the screen, I dig my fingernails into my palms and hope for a good outcome. After this, only the interviews will be able to secure us sponsors. The better scores we get, the more money Haymitch has for us, and the greater chances of survival Katniss has. I regret trying to throw that ball, but I can only hope that it won't affect my score too badly. A short piece of music plays, and then the screen is dominated with a headshot of the boy from District 1. It says his name is Marvel. Marvel must have done something impressive, because he gets a ten. I already knew that he was dangerous, and now I'm really worried. Careers normally get good scores like that, but ten is a near extreme. Eleven is incredibly rare, and twelve is unheard of.

The tributes keep flying by, and all of the Careers get in the eight-to-ten range. At least none of them are record breakers. That makes my task only slightly easier. Most of the other tributes come up with five and six, but the cripple from 10 manages a four. I wouldn't be surprised if the Careers were plotting his death this instant. As the tributes from 11 roll around, I'm not shocked to see that the boy gets a ten, but I'm terribly surprised to see when Rue comes up with a seven. I've never heard of a twelve year old getting such a good score. It makes me smile. And then, I see myself on the screen, and I somehow manage to get an eight.

I did as well as two of the Careers! How is that even possible? I stare in fascination at my picture, and I guess that I was more impressive than I thought I was.

And then, Katniss' face is on the screen, and in bolded flashing numerals, there's an eleven. She shot an arrow at the Gamemakers, and when she should have been killed for treason, she pulls up the best score out of all of us. Maybe I should have thrown a weight at the Gamemakers. Effie is squealing, and everyone is rushing over to congratulate the girl on fire. I stay where I am, allowing myself to feel hope. With a score like that, she'll have sponsors crawling out of the woodwork.

"There must be a mistake. How… How could that happen?" She asks Haymitch.

Guess they liked your temper." He shrugs. "They've got a show to put on. They need some players with some heat."

"Katniss, the girl who was on fire." Cinna hugs her, and then smiles at her. "Oh wait until you see your interview dress."

"More flames?" She grins back at him.

"Of a sort," He says with a twinkle in his eye. And for the first time since coming in here, Katniss meets my eye.

"Congratulations," I say softly, and not sure what else to do, I offer her my hand to shake.

"Good job, yourself." She says eagerly. I smile at her, and she smiles back. By the time everyone has let her go and she's scampered out of the room, I'm still trying to figure out what that means. As soon as Katniss is gone, Effie is saying that she needs lots of sleep for the big, big day tomorrow, and she's leaves the sitting room too. Cinna and Portia talk cordially with Haymitch for a while, but then they both leave as well. I'm still on the couch, staring at the darkened screen. I can hear Haymitch muttering beside me, but I don't look at him until he speaks.

"Well, Peeta, tomorrow we'll be figuring interviews and such. I suggest that you go get some sleep." I nod, and move to stand, but before I can get up, he stops me with a hand over my wrist. "You realize that you have an incredible advantage, don't you?" I look over at him, uncomprehending.

"I – what?" I ask hollowly in between a wide yawn.

"Don't be stupid," He says, "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You threatened to drown me over it, remember?" The memory of the night on the train rushes back to me, and I remember how he was screaming about how I was love in Katniss. I fail to see how that is any good for me other than the fact that I'm going to lose the girl I love.

"Well, yeah," I stammer, and my face turns redder with every word. "I'm… I'm surprised you haven't told her yet." Haymitch rolls his eyes, and sighs deeply. I think I hear him mutter a curse, but I can't be sure.

"Peeta." He says exasperatedly, "There's a reason that I _didn't._ I want you to think very hard about this." I stare blankly. I honestly don't have a clue about what he's trying to tell me, but I have a feeling that I don't want to know. "Am I going to have to spell this out for you?" I say nothing. He sighs again, and then takes a long swing from a flask. "Alright. You know how people here are – they love anything mushy, sappy, and especially, something that they can relate to or can't have." He looks at me expectantly, and I still have no idea what he's saying. I wonder if he's been drinking too much again.

"I'm still not following." By now, I'm sure Haymitch is irritated with me.

"Think Peeta!" He snaps, and I flinch. He sighs again, and runs a hand through his hair. In the dim lighting of the sitting room, he nearly looks menacing. "If you were to tell _anyone_ in the Capitol that you were in love with Katniss, think of the reaction that you would get. Poor, tragic you, in love with the girl who doesn't even know you're alive. Think of the sponsors." At first, I'm horrified by the idea.

"No!" I protest, "She doesn't even know! Why would I want to tell the world?"

"Listen to me!" Haymitch growls, "This is the kind of stuff that people here love! If you were serious about getting her out of the arena, you need to do this. You promised to do exactly as I say."

"But–"

"If you want her out of the arena _alive_, you will do as I say." I bite my lip. What will the people at home say? More importantly, what will Katniss say? Will she be disgusted? Will she mock me? I look down to the floor, and I can nearly feel Haymitch's irritation and frustration infecting the air. I have no choice.

"Fine." I snap, "But I don't want her to hear it until she absolutely has to." After elven years of keeping this to myself, I want it to be my secret for as long as it can.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Haymitch says with a smug smile. "I'll let Katniss know that you will be coached separately from now on." He laughs softly, takes another swig of wine, and I have the terrible feeling that I've just made a huge mistake.

**Bwahahahah! CRITIQUE! I LOVE IT! :D I love you all for helping me out! I've gone through this section for typos, and I hope that I managed to correct all of the incorrect capitalization after quotation marks. You guys are the BEST. Please review!  
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	15. A Note From the Author

A Note From The Author:

My life has turned upside down on me, and for a multitude of reasons, I have to take a break from fanfiction. I know, I've basically abandoned this story for the entire summer, and I feel that it's unfair to you for me to put it on hold any longer. But, unfortunately, we often don't get what we wish for in life. I thank you for your patience. Seeing as it may be an extended amount of time before I am able to pick this back up, I would like to use this opportunity to thank everyone for their support.

**Those who added Nightlock to Story Alert:**

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Thank you for taking the time to read every chapter. Knowing that I had all of you wonderful people behind me really kept me going when writing got rough.

**To those who added Nightlock to their Favorites:**

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story and for the monumental boost in confidence you gave me. Favorite-ing Nightlock definitely played a role in keeping Peeta going.

**To the people who reviewed Nightlock:**

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Without you, there would be no Nightlock. It is because of you that I am determined not to abandon this story. Because of your encouragement and constrictive criticism my confidence in my writing has grown – and that's what every writer dreams of.

**A Final Note to My 'Dream Team':**

**Canadian-Girl 14**

**PrideIsArrogance**

If your pen name appeared on this list, this means that you have reviewed every single chapter. Your time and effort is especially appreciated, and I feel the most guilt about leaving you hanging. But, because of your commitment to this story, I have made a commitment to you. This will be finished. It will take longer than I would like it to, but it _will_ be completed.

Thank you so much for your patience.

~CherrybombLuvsU


	16. Chapter 15

"Yes, just like that!" squeals Effie, and I force myself to smile at her. Today, I've been preparing for tomorrow's interviews, and I feel like I'm in some sort of a daze. This morning, Haymitch let Effie in on the secret of what I'm going to be presenting to all of Panem, and it was nearly impossible to convince her to keep her mouth shut. However, after seeing how thrilled she was, I'm feeling slightly more confident about his. Haymitch wasn't kidding when he told me that the people here eat romance and unrequited love up. I suppose it's a close second to bloody death.

I spent the morning with Haymitch covering the content of my interview. Really, it wasn't all that difficult – he had no problem choosing an angle for me, and I had no problem playing it up. The only thing I really needed further instruction was how to tell Caesar about Katniss, and Haymitch told me as long as I appeared humble that I would be able to win over the Capitol. And that's all that really matters, seeing as I'm not going to be able to get anywhere with Katniss as this point. All in all, I had a pretty pleasant morning. Now that Haymitch has gotten his way, I no longer feel like he's going to leap across the table and strangle me. And while I'm pretty sure that he doesn't like me very well, he's not entirely a monster. I know that he actually has been working on keeping us alive. However, after lunch, Katniss and I switched instructors. From across the table, judging by the dark look on Katniss' face, I knew I was in a heap of trouble.

I'm glad that Haymitch is having us coached separately, because doing this with Katniss would be nightmarish. I wouldn't be surprised if Katniss was balking every step of the way through all of this – because I'm starting to get tired of Effie yelling in my ear.

"Sit up straight, Peeta! Remember: you have a string attached to the top of your head!" I try not to sigh, and I straighten out my back as best I can. It's been nearly three hours, and I'm just waiting for the moment that she'll let me go eat dinner. Surely, there can't be much more etiquette to learn. But, oh, how wrong I am. I spend the next hour saying various phrases while smiling, grinning, and forcing myself to laugh pleasantly.

When Effie finally lets me go for dinner, I can tell that she's pleased though, so I guess that I didn't do that bad of a job. At least, I didn't come storming out of the room like Katniss did. I head to my room to wash up, and I splash cold water on my face. For the first time today, I feel awake. I guess that knowing by this time tomorrow I'll be on a stage is frightening; even more so when I remember that I'll be confessing my love for Katniss to the entire country. Haymitch thinks it's the right thing to do through, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have to trust him.

If I can't trust my mentor to keep me alive, then who can I? Certainly not Katniss. I'm sure that by now she hates me. I wouldn't be surprised if she's plotting my death this very moment.

I stare at my hollow face in the mirror, noting the dark circles that have appeared under my eyes. I've been having nightmares since coming to the Capitol. Most of the involve Katniss and Sesame – but I've had one that involves Delly chasing me with a butcher knife. Again, I run the faucet and splash more cold water on my face, willing the nightmares away. I've got to be able to retain everything that Effie just taught me. The image that I present tomorrow will decide whether or not I will be able to get enough sponsors to do Haymitch any good. I sigh, and roughly rub a soapy washcloth across my face. I probably need a shower, but I'll just clean myself up after dinner. I'm sure that Mercedes and Lileium will scrub me down tomorrow anyways.

And then after tomorrow, I will be placed into the arena. I'll be dying in that arena. As the tribute from District 12, it's likely that I'll be dead by the end of the opening day. Seeing as the Careers aren't too happy about what happened with the Opening Ceremonies, and how Katniss and I had such spectacular costumes, I have a feeling that we will be their first targets. The Careers aren't used to being beat in anything. They're going to want revenge for the fact that two tributes from the lowest District were able to trounce them.

And I still have no idea how I'm going to pull this off.

But soon enough, Effie is knocking on my door, calling me out to dinner. I set the washrag down on the counter – an Avox will pick it up later – and head out. I sat through four hours of lecturing with her today, and I'm not really up for much more. But I really don't have that much hope in not being badgered. The stylists won't be eating with us tonight. And since the Hunger Games are two days away, Effie and Haymitch will be on overdrive to get us prepared. I try to school my face into a stern mask, and I try to collect a sudden surge panic as best I can. If I face them like this, it will end up being ugly.

I've survived their coaching for four days, and I'm sure that two more days won't hurt me. But it's getting difficult to remain pleasant.

As I reach the dining room, I know that I'm in trouble. Haymitch has an empty wine glass, with only a little dark colored liquid sitting at the bottom of it. He's glaring at Effie, and she looks ruffled. I don't think they've even noticed that I'm in the room.

"We're doing this _my_ way, or not at all!" Haymitch snarls, and spit lands on Effie's face. They're glaring at each other, both so red in the face I'm suddenly afraid of instantaneous combustion.

"But you don't know what you're doing! There's a reason that this hasn't worked before!" She shrieks, waving her hands violently in front of her face. "One wrong move and this could blow up in our faces! Any good brought from this will be far outweighed by the bad!"

"You don't think I know that, Effie?" Haymitch grabs the empty wine glass in a white knuckled grip, and for a moment, I'm worried that he'll chuck it at her. I shrink back to the wall, doing my best to keep in the shadow of the doorway. But even if I were right at the table, I still don't think that they'd notice me. "Trust me. I _know_ what happens when you mess with the Gamemakers." Although Haymitch's anger is terrifying, my curiosity is sparked. Gamemakers? Even though it's none of my business, and I'm sure that I shouldn't be here, I can't walk away. Not now that I'm interested.

"If you know so well, Haymitch, I would think that you would be more cautious about this!" Her eyes narrow as she leans across the table, and her voice drops an octave as she speaks again. "I won't allow you to ruin what chance he has for her survival, Haymitch."

Confusion whirls around in my mind as my brain tries to process all of this. _They're talking about Katniss and me_. My thought process launches into panic. What could Haymitch possibly say to the Gamemakers that could end up with me dead and Katniss living?

"If the girl doesn't get out," he snaps, "Then the boy won't either. You know that. You and I both know that Katniss will be fierce as lump of dough without it." Without what? But I don't dare to ask, not with Haymitch as angry as he is.

Effie seems just as insistent as Haymitch. "But that doesn't mean you have to bribe them for it! Surely, there must be something else –"

"Like what?" He shouts, and with a spurt of sudden anger, he rips the wine glass from the table and throws it at the wall, where it shatters into a million fragments. "LIKE WHAT?" He roars, and I have a feeling that he's had more than that one glass of wine. "You don't think I've been trying to find the answer myself? You think I'd abandon the boy without second thought?"

"I – no – I –" Effie's stammering, and she tries to pull back from him. Haymitch roughly grabs her arm, and pulls him closer to his face.

"You'd best be careful to remember that I know what I'm doing, Effie. And if getting Katniss a bow means I can give the Gamemakers permission to roughen it up for Peeta, so be it! You know as well as I do that if one of them's going to make it that it's got to be Katniss!" What? What was that? He's selling me out to get her a bow? That doesn't even make sense! The Gamemakers don't listen to anyone – they do what they like! Mentors don't have a say in who dies and who lives! Haymitch has no power over what happens inside the arena! But as I see Effie struggle and finally pull away, and Haymitch muttering foul words under his breath, I know that he means it.

And for the first time since entering the Capitol, I am truly terrified. Although I have told Haymitch that I would be willing to die for her, for the first time, my promise is leaping into action. Instantly, my own will to survive kicks in, and I wish that I could take that promise back. I wish that it did not take me dying a gruesome death to get Katniss the weapon she so desperately needs. Like Effie, I wish that there was another way. My selflessness has vanished, now that it has come down to me actually fulfilling my word.

As Haymitch grabs another glass from the center of the table, and pours himself some more wine, he looks over towards the doorway, and his eyes take in me. The blood drains from my face as anger twists his face again.

When he speaks, his voice is barely audible, in a deadly whisper that terrifies me. "How long have you been standing there?"

I say nothing.

"Get out," he says softly, but I'm unable to move. "GET OUT!" I jump as he screams at me, and as I move out of the way, I hear the unmistakable sound of glass shattering against the wall. I speed away from the dining room, heading quickly back into my room.

I shut my door silently behind me, the dark wood scraping softly against the cream colored carpets. Cold sweat has beaded on my forehead by now, and my appetite has tripled. But I don't want meat, not anymore. I have a sudden desire to make myself ill on sweet rolls and lemon pastries. My thoughts turn back to the lemon cake I decorated on the day of the Reaping, and numbly, I recall that my father's bakery is a lifetime away. My mouth waters as I think of the tart flavors of his croissants overflowing with berries, and my stomach begins churning with expectation. Forget being healthy and prepared for the arena; I want to eat myself sick.

Doing my best to push what I just witnessed out of my mind, I walk across my room towards the large screen that serves as both a mirror and a menu. I've never used this piece of technology, and for once, I welcome the challenge with determination. The Capitol may own me, but it will not outsmart me. Even if it takes all night, I will have my lemon filled croissants. With something that resembles grim determination, I begin pressing the touch screen delicately, as I know that it's probably a great deal smarter than me. And if the roof can electrocute a person, I don't want to consider what my touch screen could do to me.

It takes only a matter of seconds to find what I'm looking for.

To be honest, the sweet fragrance of sugary bread and lemon preserves is a bit disappointing. I was so sure that this would be a puzzle; something that I could occupy my mind with. Silky, opaque steam rises from the pastry sitting on the plate of china that has appeared, and for a moment, I consider ignoring the food I have and making this more difficult. After all, I want to enjoy my reward as some sort of compensation for hard work. There's no point in having things handed to you.

But my resistance crumbles as quickly as it had begun; before I can stop myself, I have the soft bread in my hands, and I'm wolfing it down. A small part of me feels significantly offended by the action, as if eating has corrupted a part of my pride, but the rest of me doesn't seem to have a problem with it. I spend the next few minutes eating four more of the pastries, and when I'm sick of lemon flavoring, I jab another option on the screen with a sticky finger and raspberry pastries replace the leftover lemon ones instantaneously.

I feel treacherous admitting it, but I really could get used to having an unlimited supply of food.

I consume a total of eleven pastries, lemon, raspberry, blueberry, and blackberry, and I only stop because my stomach switches from churning with pleasure to rolling with the beginnings of nausea. I lick the delicious fruit filling off of my fingers, and notice with a slight pang of guilt that my stomach is sticking out further past the boundaries of my pants than it was when I entered my room. I probably shouldn't have eaten that much, especially since tomorrow I'm going to be trying to present a good image for District 12 to the rest of Panem, but… If Effie has a problem with it, I'm sure there's some way she can schedule an emergency fat-sucking operation for me, or however it is people remain thin here.

I look up at the digital clock in the corner of the touch screen, and I see that's a little past eleven. I'll be waking up at seven in the morning to prepare for the interviews: it takes a moment for my brain to calculate it, but I realize that I'm only going to have eight hours of sleep. That doesn't seem like nearly enough rest to face the entire country, but I have no other choice. With a touch of a button, I flick off the lights, and I crawl into the heavenly bed. Snuggled underneath warm blankets and silk sheets, sleep claims me quickly, and for a few, precious hours, I am able to put the Games from my mind.

It's still dark in my room when someone shakes me awake. I open my eyes drearily, mumbling incoherently under my breath. I don't even know what I'm saying.

"Peeta," says a familiar, warm voice, "It's time to get up." I the back of my hand across my eyes, and as my vision clears I can see that Portia is leaning over my bed, smiling brightly at me. The red curtains covering my windows have been pulled back, and the grey-blue daylight floods my room. Portia's eyes seem to be brighter in the pale light, and I'm only able to stare dumbly up at her for a moment.

"Why do I have –" here, my voice is cut off by a yawn, "Why do I have to get up again?"

"Because you have an interview to get ready for!" With no further explanation, my stylist drags me from my bed, and practically flings me into the bathroom adjacent to my room. There, Mercedes, Artemis, and Lileium are waiting for me. I blink sleepily as they strip my clothing off of me, and let them lead me to the steaming hot bath that is waiting for me.

As my body is lowered into the scalding water, awareness comes fully to me, and reflexively, I try to pull myself out of the water. It _burns_. I yelp as the trio pushes me down in the water, and I try to fight them again. I thrash a bit, trying to break free, but as they begin to scrub my body down with a pumice stone and scent-less soap, I know that it's to no avail. I look to Portia, and I see that she's wearing a sly grin on her face.

"Am I so disgusting that you need to boil me to get me clean?" I snarl, still trying to wake up.

"No," she said matter-of-factly, "But you are rather smelly." I glower at her, but I remain compliant as her grotesque assistants scrub me down, and then again. An hour and a half later, I'm being dried off with a ridiculously fluffy towel, and then shoveling breakfast down my throat in the bathroom. As soon as I've finished, I take a seat on the edge of the toilet, and I look to Portia. Her assistants have cleared from the room – perhaps they're readying my costume.

"So," I say mildly, having gotten over my morning crankiness, "What exactly is the plan?" Her smile seems to soften as she notices that I'm back to normal, and she answers me eagerly.

"Well, we're going to get you prepared, with your hair and whatnot, and then we're going to dress you. After that, we'll all go down to where the Opening Ceremonies were held, and you'll have your interview. First, you'll have to sit through twenty three other interviews, and by the time it is finally your turn, the audience will probably be bored and hungry You aren't going to help that." She smiles devilishly at me as she takes my hand in hers, and I roll my eyes.

"Thanks for your faith in me," I say sarcastically, and she pops the back of my head affectionately.

"Any time, kid."

The next hours crawl by as the prep team dances around me, rubbing various lotions and creams on my skin, styling my hair in whatever way the feel is fit, and I spend most of it in pleasant conversation with Portia. For the most part, the grotesque trio of chattering birds is silent, but occasionally they'll break into our conversation.

Around five thirty, I think they're finally satisfied with my appearance. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, and I see little difference. I have no idea what could have possibly taken that long, but as long as they're pleased, I really don't care. Soon after they scramble out, Portia leaves the room and returns with a long, black bag. I raise my eyebrow quizzically, yet she ignores it.

I glance over at her as she carefully unzips the bag, and from what I can see, it just looks like a load of black fabric. Memories of previous interviews spring to my mind, and I realize that they're putting me in a tuxedo. I've never worn something so nice in my entire life.

"Come here," she says quietly as she pulls the dress pants away from the jacket, and I slip them on, being careful not to crease the expensive fabric. They've been tailored to fit me perfectly. It's scary how much the Capitol knows about their subjects.

She dresses me in a crisp white shirt, and then pulls suspenders from my belt loops over my shoulders. I pop the straps in curiosity, and she gently smacks my hand away. I laugh softly under my breath. Quickly, she knots a tie with red and orange accents elegantly over my collarbone, and then the coal-black jacket is pulled over it. She runs her fingers through her hands, styling one last time, and looks at me.

"Would you like to see yourself?" she asks, and I nod. I've always been slightly vain. She directs me over to the mirror, and I see that I'm not all that bad looking. I look less tired, and somehow, I look healthier. The stress seems to have disappeared from my demeanor, and I look quite charming.

"Not bad," I say over my shoulder at Portia, "Not bad at all."

"Well," she says firmly, "Even if you hated it, you'd be wearing it." I'm tempted to turn and pop _her _on the back of her head, but before I can, she's asking the question that I least expected to hear today.

"How are you feeling?"

I stand in silence as I consider my answer. By this time tomorrow, I will be dead. But before I die, I have to face the entire country, and absolutely humiliate myself with my confession. After that, Katniss won't even be willing to _look_ at me, much less speak with me. Haymitch has essentially traded my life in to get her a bow, and despite all of this, she still won't ever return my feelings. I'm dying for a lost cause, and I'm only going to be remembered as a fool. I look at Portia as I think of all of this, and then, slowly, I answer her.

"I'm fine." It's difficult to lie through my teeth to her, and I can tell that she doesn't believe that I'm being very sincere.

"Alright then," she says with a tone that gives me a sense of finality, "We'd better be going then."

I follow her silently as we leave the bathroom, and as I move down the hallway, I nearly regret not divulging the extent of my problems with her. I'm not going to get that chance again. Regret swells up in me, but I try to put it aside. What's done is done.

When we reach the elevator, my prep team is already waiting for me. They're all smiling and clamoring among themselves, and I simply block them from my mind. I'm still trying to prepare myself for the world of verbal assault that I'm about to face, and I have the sinking feeling that Haymitch's and Effie's training won't be enough.

I glance across the room, looking to the corridor that leads from the bedrooms into the main room, and I catch sight of Cinna. And walking beside him, clothed in fire, is an angel. Katniss Everdeen has surpassed the boundaries of beautiful. I stare at her, not caring what anyone else will think, and my eyes hungrily take in every detail of her face. Her dark hair has been skillfully twisted from one ear, across her forehead, and then to the other, and her silky locks are draped across her shoulders and down her back. The dress, the shimmering, gorgeous dress is so dazzling that I can't help but watch it as she moves. Her skin has been dusted with glitter and her beneath an inch of makeup, are her ever-familiar grimacing features.

Apparently, she's not any more comfortable with this than I am.

I try to smile at her, and like always, she ignores it. I try to pretend that it doesn't sting. Soon enough, we're all crammed into the elevator, and as we're riding down, my stomach begins to knot itself up. I feel like I'm going to be sick. I clutch my gut, and do my best to steady myself. In the reflection of the crystal walls, I can see that I've turned slightly green.

And then, all too soon, the elevator stops, and we are at the mercy of the Capitol. The doors slide open painfully slowly, and we are hit with a wall of sound. There are photographers screaming our names, cameras flashing as they take our picture, and I'm so overwhelmed that Portia has to push me slightly before I move. I swallow nervously, knowing that within a few short minutes, my actions will be broadcast live to Panem.

* * *

><p><em>Again, I apologize for the ridiculous delay. As I start to get back into the swing of this story, updates will come more often. But, seeing as I've started two new big projects, I can't promise that updates will come every other day. Thank you for your patience with me, and I hope that you enjoyed the chapter! <em>


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